new poem (a work in progress)

Headline

 You read aloud-

“Oil covered birds effectively

cook themselves

in the Spill.”

A dark slick crosses

your face

the peril in your eyes

draws my skin  

against yours.

We lay on a thick bed of moss

under lace drapery of trees.

The chit chat of water over stones

brings the scent of

petroleum.

A chant of waves caresses sand

Surf pounds, supplicates.

A gull cry echoes,

a plea for black gold

to disappear.

without a trace.

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