Boomslang Poetry


Menacing in coal-holes,
cellars and outhouses it winters.
This is the stuff,
not the barely burning
no permit required, brown,
almost, not quite, lignite,
but the hard dark of ancient trees
and trapped insects.
Huge slabs of it
glistening with diamonds.
Itís the tough boy,
mean on the streets. Two shots
black like the lamps,
itís the real thing, this
mountain high anthracite.