The old dog shaking
off fleas,
earth heaves on its
foundations.
Shattered, highways
demand
their toll at the flopped
bridge
while buildings and
bastions crash.
Seven gods explode
above us,
floods tip over the
frail land
where fires char the
southern skies
and mountains squat.
Shockwaves over the
city,
we endure the floor
of the pit,
hugging our turbulent
selves.
History’s shat out
of naure.
Sit.
Stay.
Wait for the
drumming of hooves,
twilight, the
procreative silence.
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