A Whimper And The Dust Poem by Ryan Frazier

Two are looking at 7 minutes and
58 limping seconds (you see, this is
the longest a solar eclipse will press
its fingers to our collar bone) .
Glimpsing water towers in the celibate
distance, the car climbs the ladder to
spraypaint an obscenity on it's
side, careful not to break any ribs.

A whimper and the sun ends up
underground every evening.
He is stone Aztec, claiming war on
bottle caps,
mating and producing more
skinny flesh deliverance,
more blood and rum.
Meteoric dust and the shutterbug's
lapsed flash falling to earth,
40 thousand tons per question,
one teaspoon per 100 million
tons of neutron star dust.

It covers the movie set and
soaks the larvae to their ankles.
One dropp of water,
the autopsy of the last star
to collide with a spyglass.
Every sliver of coal
oil
gas and deep forest on the
tilted mud would
only keep Brother Sun burning for three
weak days.

To keep their 7 some-odd moments,
he picks up his axe and starts
in on the first tree.
With sore throat and muscles
singing ache under the eclipse,
he begins to empty the
last mine.