It’s thirty below zero as the sun
readies to rise on the dawn of man.
I am on the rig floor,
this subzero ice-covered saw-tooth monster
where I stand like a sacrificial fool
in a gargantuan one-sided struggle
of steel and sinew and oil and blood
ripped down to the bone but unbowed
the metal and mettle in a fusion
where the piercing shards of life flay flesh and fat
clawing away the living veil
until it begins to tease the light beyond its ability to resist
turning the night into the truth of a time before
yawning to consume the soul of all that is edible
not leaving even a scrap
running me down into the bowels
of all of it from where it issues forth
and into the world.
In this place, in this time, the eye never blinks
because the mind never closes.