Smuggled.
All the rivers have run dry
and all the bridges have been burnt to the ground
someone buried the hatchet long ago
everyone knows, but me
won’t you turn around and you may see
a whirling masa of rolling ash
and there’s me, standing solitary in the enveloping plumes
with hammer and tools in hand
no one told me you can’t ever fix a broken heart
but still I try
like a madman I keep trying
beating this dead horse into the ground.