The Gold Fields

I am up to my waist,
rooted like the flowers
that I came to count,
burning darkly
as a miller's cloud,
sparked into explosion
by tiny clicks
of steel on steel.

I tracked him
through the capital,
a fat man as an error,
a city bomb,
who eyes the cool, cool student
and dies adrenalised,
so heavy under evil.

The booted, foul-mouthed,
razored men
are nothing matching you.