from Mine (2007):
A SEASON OF COAL
by Tung-Hui Hu
Even if shoes stick to the road
and coal seams break
the surface, this is a nice place
to live. Quiet. Warm.
So the black
earth has failed you;
still there are wide streets,
trimmed grass,
plenty of coal
carried by thieves
as a symbol of protection.
Or to turn people
monochrome. To coal another:
fingers pulled like cloth
over a birdcage
cover the eyes and vanish
the anger. As if in the dark
we all looked the same.