Poem #22

Rolling hills as far as I can squint
to find that pencil-thin horizon,
the glint from sunlight and soon sunset
to give us tranquility fervently embracing
our march to save our one and only home, yes, every year
I paint myself green for one day,
with dripping leftovers covering those hills
a coat of fresh environmentalism because, beneath
this fairway brightness, we house polystyrene
popcorn, boxes, takeout containers, plastic bottles,
bent metal frames, aluminum cans, batteries,
toxic sludge acting as primer,
clouds hovering as forgotten baggage
decades of unimportant junk becoming (too) important.

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