Team-building for canaries
as the unbreatheable air creeps north.
We are asked to figure out
how to fit our troubles in a backpack.

“Consider the weight, the space,”
intones the white male efficiency analyst,
“find ways to delegate
or write your troubles onto another

and in so doing, emigrate
beyond a world where difficulty persists,
where your task list is a
pleasure cruise in a sea of Xanax and

        shame –”
but its too late and the voices ring
in the night and the brass-balled hubris

of thinking that we can talk out of this.
That there is a well deep enough
for the vitriol and treacle that
pumps endlessly from Janus’ two pie-holes.
The spring of Lautolae, unburdened,
passing no judgment, scorching every part.

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