power lines cutlass the open sky,
rising suburban sewage tide
washes over the wilderness
in sevens and elevens,
in diamonds and shamrocks,
this retail must be curtailed
as forests are felled,
fuel to this sprawling disease
of so much impersonal property
left in the hands of scaly
cotton mouths and copper heads
with water in their moccasins.
there is no place left to hide.
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