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James Papworth

Each day this reactor
loses another clump of plutonium. 
Brief traces of dust clutter 
the edges of fingers 
where cuticles curve the nail. 
The geiger clicks around us 
spattering the air with our news, 
and the people we counted as friends 
turn red nearby. 
On days we can no longer sleep, 
We wake up watching moths 
beat each other for space 
around the bulb. 
The refrigerator hum 
churns us to butter. 
The yelling across town 
comes into our homes. 
On those days 
we are the nasal smears 
that are lost.