Steel mills speak to me
with messages disguised in smoke.
They bleed and wheeze before they retreat
and surrender to a blanket of snow.
They send men with tired eyes
out to place bets on feral dogs.
We begin and end in graveyards,
and sink deeper into the beyond.
Out here, on these great northern plains
where the sky will always flee from the sun
everything is beautiful
and terrible all at once.
-Lola Stansbury-Jones, 2020 ©
Originally published in #1 of Sink Magazine
Lola Stansbury-Jones 