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)