Magats

This land still crawls with magats
Gorging on the entrails of a rotten fox
Inching here and there, vomiting poison
As they die from the inside
And the decay sets in.
Dripping venom onto the parched earth
As if to supplicate its desiccation
Then slouching away, too careless to see
That it evaporates so quickly
Under the white-hot sun
Whose increasing fury cannot be denied.

Spineless, brainless, heartless
Operating upon the worst of instinct:
Hate, fear, greed, ignorance; relics of atavism
Evolution has passed them by.
Soon, the wretched creatures will be endangered
A refuge must be found - X marks the spot
Gather them up with begloved hands
(As one might whilst handling waste)
And deposit them in their natural state:
Beneath the bottom
Of the garbage dump
Of history.

Chinook

                                                Gales blow down the mountains
                                Bringing the scent of pinecones, dry needles, and lichen
                                                And flinging dust into the valley
                                                 That it may someday level out
                                                            And come plain
                                                            About the climb
                                                                  No more.

Epitaph for a glass

Let it fall 

                        Watch it break

                                                Shatter, crack and burst
                                    Into shards tinkling their delicate music
                                            Whilst dancing cross the stern hardness
                    That broke their progenitor
                                                And granted sharp-edged freedom
To particulate into lethality.