my body fits roughly
the dark of this mine-shaft,
my clogs in its foot-slots

a long straw's fuse,
packed with black powder,
explodes dead toadstone

my spirit, like tallow-dip,
flickers and bobs
in a blob of clay

I'm running wet
in the sweat of my leathers,
in my mouth's black spit

my breath through a scarf
narrows with choke-damp:
I've hacked breath and heart out

when with pick and kibble
I sling and swing out again
onto the hillside

where it's wetter: what shelter's
a straw-sodden hurdle
for my wife and daughters,

who crush and sift ore
for the hill-top smelter?
with phlegm I rake up,

my pectorals ache:
inching forward by years,
I've sworn I'll make fifty -

from these vertical drains,
these worked-out veins

© Alec Rapkin