by Pavel Chichikov
Seven workers fallen on hard times –
If the week were burning
Which way would the wind blow?
Burn the seven bodies on a pyre
Made of kindling minutes, hours
In their variable bulk
Let the widow-seconds throw
Their frail remains
On the blaze of time
Acrid smoke blows north –
Drifts toward faint Polaris
In long sea-winds
The hard city of time
Columns green, imperial
Burns like jade, a black lustrous flame
(Click here to follow Pavel's ongoing epic poem “The Shoulder of the Sun.” You may also visit Pavel's website at Grey Owl Press.)