Salt of the Earth
by Cam M. Roberts
Our disciplines are now accustomed to a common tradition
throughout all eons of time, in the blood of elements
whereby lineages of electrons enliven
the masses to dream of a spirit called covalence.
Propounded they are by this,
and so they must consider their bond –
Let us be realistic:
Deserted islands no longer exist,
they now live in a dream called extinction,
which bears a greater resemblance to the shitholes of history
than to imagination or memory where every oasis is rendered, and then foiled –
A mirage.
Men require moonlight intransitive while walking
along silent beaches with all things either behind
or beneath them, and so their private lives all explode –
When wreck becomes wreckage the dust does not linger much,
repugnance is the soul of strangeness, and is forever restless.
It belongs somewhere else:
In galleries, museums, libraries.
Along the walls of a dimly-lit corridor.
Or in a jar lodged within the bowels of a hoarder’s house.
