Refugee

The anger has settled now
like a steel bolt in the stomach,
and I let the body do its work without me.

The brain interprets the monitor, the diaphragm contracts
and pulls air into the lungs, the blood runs
in circles, the hand moves the mouse,

and I shrink down to crawl
between the liver and large intestines
where the poisons and waste are expelled.

Let the suits line up behind their pulpits.
Let the gavel-whackers play their wooden drums.
Let the gods of guilt update their books.

The reactors have melted. The death-makers have already launched.
But I will stay here in the dark, in the last quite place
the only refuge left, a bunker built for cleansing.

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