Drew Milne & John Kinsella

from Reactor Red Shoes

the carbon tongue, the peat
    song of broken promises
    and ardent castings into
the call of blunt instruments
     in the bay of garden island,
     or maybe the Sound,
collation of beachcombers
     and geiger counters,
     supplies in for the run
silent haul of bladders, super-
     trawler catch-all, clasp
     of the Russian egg, grasping
water-tight doors holding
     ear-pop back, sounding
     deprivation on plimsoll
horizons set low as memorials
     and beneath the polar
     pack ice scenarios: that blip
again, that echo of our love
     to look deep in, the smudges
     of reflection, tweaks
of vanity’s health in synchronous
     pools of depth charge, of
     species charges, the case
for masques falls in squads
    stroked into furry quarries
    the flip streams laying
fissile levers, hear a crack
    there the crack, scarcely
    the ribbon of our losses
doing sienna on ghosts of
    industrial revolutions past,
    scarcely the paranoid rust
of apocalyptics to blood up
    the squandered earth, the

    spoliation takes our breath 

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