“This is a new use for the canary”
–Nottingham Evening Post, 1906

Here among the man-made
night, I churn—an engine heaving
through the imprecisions of burning

out. I’m tired of glowing
furiously against the dark
side of the bars, but what

else is there to be but a flame
in this suffocating still, this shadow
veining through the mountain’s

chest. Long before you even have a chance
to feel it, I’ll be gone—purple
replacing my lungs in the invisible

after damp. My only failure, a heart
not yet replaced by less
delicate machines.