After she leaves for good, the excavators

will work with even greater ferocity, excited

by their first scent of dark, jugular oil.

 

Razor tools will fumble blindly in the dark,

searching for the fading ruby glow, lost

amongst the veins of rich, breathing

mahogany that only a bitter nose of

whiskey competes with in the lungs.

 

Once the first scars are weeping across

the earth, the only way to make them go

away is to dig down everything around them,

deep to that hungry inner Triassic soil–

 

–it’s the only way the foreman is willing to try, at least.

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