In Timan-Pechora

In Timan-Pechora, oceans
Of crude remote as cold suns, flarestacks venting
Ribbon flames—a cash-beacon semaphore 
Siberia to Moscow 

Russian missiles passé, now the hierophant grail 
Of primordial reserves, thermo methanes, pipeline 
Hydrocarbons in cubic billion tonnes 
To rule them all

Or shales fracked, or the bleed of sediments 
Miles deep, the soak of fossil sands
Through reflux valves, welds 
And hollow-eyed insurgencies 

American democracy eats 
Its young—pockets emptied to Big Pharma
Big Banks, murder-cop trials, neo-Nazi podcast
Drop, demagogue variant QAnon 

A memory of wax-melt heat, sawtooth ferns 
In a flying lizard’s shadow, drill bits
Sluggish with lost worlds

In chilly cottages and flats, pterodactyls
Clawing through the thermostats

Estill Pollock | A Clock Is Buried Here
Contents | Mudlark No. 74 (2023)