by Vayne Ong
On the old moor there was nothing but dust
and dry wind on red grain, clung
to our resipirators
The soles of our gumboots stuckon slope material
progressing toward the hour that our souls shall return
to that celestial cloth, just as a wave merges back
to the sea, just as dust removes into the horizon
Vayne Ong is a historian and poet based in New York, NY. She was born in Malaysia and grew up in New Jersey. She is a PhD candidate in history at Columbia University.