Sunday, April 25, 2010

NaPoWriMo Number Twenty-Five

We drive combustion on seven dollars a day
rigged to a sand bottom this flare
is only a candle lit by a small flick quick guess
is there a BP exec holding the matches and did
he light another when the first one didn’t
catch it?
At five thousand feet deep we bleed
black and wax about mass destruction worry
about how far the car goes with tar spilling
across April drilling this blown up rigging left
eleven uncounted and thought dead.

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