Coal Face
Here at the coal face the
seam shimmers up
in the still pool of the
lamps presenting
yet another round with the
Magic Eight
Ball’s relentless icosahedral
die,
insistent invitation to
weigh in,
wield taped worn handles,
bash scarred knuckle meat
against the low ceiling, advance
and shore
advance and shore ahead of
the dirty
gondola ferrying moments away
on a rail, fueling the
flare of the here
and now, consumed in the ash
of the past,
future a myth of clean
combustion, we
yearn for one more furious
turn with the
ball, the message hazy, a
whispered "ask
again later" floating up
into view.
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