Salt on Everything

Tonight the fog settles around our ears
and about the air, muffling the lamps
floating above their ghostly legs.
We ask you to look across the lake
from your lookout on the top of nowhere;
to see there’s salt on everything:
someone is going to bed
but not before shoveling every grain out of their grave
beside the future mine site,
and still more are clocking in
to shovel the salt into our mouths.

The water is still pliable--
it will give if you set upon it
with your black ark;
floating above the eyes full of wishing wells.
This night we’ll allow you
to walk on our streets and remember the weight of everything
leaving your tracks on our kitchen tables;
touching our plates, and moving our chairs
to reclaim your place in our council,
reminding yourself
that the silence is the only thing that still haunts you.

Our factories still spew gas from their mouths
while the workers crush salt on assembly lines
making enough to keep their families awake
and still shoving a few grains into their pockets.
The men in lofts watch sweating
in their ill fitting suits glancing at their watches
muttering that there’s just not enough;
their food is still bland
and their kids are begging for more.
All the while they pace
licking the salt on everything.

Others beat their drums with their eyes closed
gazing towards the north
hoping you’ll glide by
and put salt on everything,
distracted enough to not notice
they’ve been beating their drums
ever since they thought God was still alive somewhere
staring down from his burden on the moon.
but when we listen to the bones
all we hear is the speed of decay
from the salt drying up what’s left.

Even the animals have wandered into the cities.
Neighbors find bears in their trash bins,
deer are lured into back yards with salt licks.
Don’t waste your time at the zoo
you’ll only find the creatures clammed up
just as we are, shaking and shivering
mangy and irritated from the salt in their eyes.
What goes on outside the bars
is no longer their concern because in your absence
the Serengeti has succumb
to the salt on everything.

If the was time I would ask you to peek inside a den
where those tired of mining
synthesize a sanguine saline solution
derived from the salt on everything
exact in every detail down to its sickening flavor
which is to be passed out
to all those who realize our bodies
are just like the Atlantic;
I wish you could touch these skins once more
to feel what we’ve all been missing
mesmerized by the salt on everything.

But always by midnight, like most good stories,
you’ll have to leave us to our devices;
when you’re done with the lights
we’d also like to play with them.
the fog is lifting its hand off the land,
you can move on from our burned fields
to find your way back under your disguise,
so we can get out of bed, take off the masks
and blind ourselves
with the light that’s reflecting
off the salt on everything.