Adam Heater

That abstract essence, smelted
In the furnace of African heat
Crudely shapen by the shifting landmasses
Finds no release from the crucible
From the machinations of its fellow man

But yearns for a touch
The touch of grace, personified by industry
And lust, and savagery, and pain
To turn their faces to the sun
And set upon their shoulders
The greatest gift

All for nought the eucalyptus whispers
This pain you've wrought, boil and blister
In the tide pools sink or swim
Your judgement of your sin rests
On the lightness of your being