This rock house loft can’t sustain the sway
from mile-deep brine water pumping back, it crumbles
like my hand crushed last winter,
car door slammed,
digits malformed into turnkeys
that don’t open much anymore –
like gangrene clogged my throat at seven,
poison within swallow,
not to mention malnutrition,
fluoridated well water. Where was pure?
So tonight near Guthrie, swaying
wakes us one more time, so we all turn
over, shake off dreaming, settle,
so used to rock house roll
this fracking ride.
Bottled up inside. Bottled up inside. Bottled up inside.