Hazardous Taste

by David Baresch, Japan

In creep, in crawl, incursion occurs,
Its name the smog and it knows no doors,
Through the gaps of all it does throng,
Through keyholes small and doorjambs tall.
And that filth of mist,
In streams of grey,
It blinds the night,
It coughs the day,
And such that dense,
And such that gloom,
That one might hear a whispered doom.
For here, there is no escape from the taste of hazardous waste.  

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