Plateaus capped by tar

lit softly in the dim yellow evening.

Windows gleaming radioactive steam

rails carving broad mountainsides

from thickets at the feet

to jagged pine peaks.

Nobody has ever stopped moving

in this hollow hell.

Bulbs glow from the pulse

of burning bones.

Voices flow like rolling coal

over the toilet bowls.

Butterflies quake in the reins

of an electric haze.

Smokestacks excrete black rainbows

on the bronze periphery.

Shallow cuts in the turf

broadcast an otherworldly mirror.

Reflections darken to transparency

between the evaporation

of days and nights.

The trees lean various ways:

conscious oxygen

learns the map of minds

and retracts its touch.