a literary journal published by the Black Earth Institute dedicated to re-forging the links between art and spirit, earth and society
before our coral architecture grays. We can pray
for our skeletons to bathe in clean tropical blood
transform denial into blue-green moss
fragrant as a florist, smart as a forest exhale.
The man with the gold-plated pen in his hand
is a behind-the-scenes laughing back row crow
poking the sand bag barriers surrounding islands
standing near the coffin thinking it will confess.
Science is not a battleground for business men
nor a sanctuary for a simmering stew of beliefs.
Watch, as the tired street pumps in Miami
send drums of marine water back out to sea.
in flat grass fields.
slick with fog
Instead of crying
she shovels mud
homes for herds
lingering near pools
of purple fruit
and shaman dust.
Ghost men watch
from poaching posts
eyeing the ivory.
Her touch is a balm
against the onslaught.
If only she could
sleep standing up.