post fire—post ice

post fire—post ice

sunlight gives and takes
eight minutes twenty seconds
to reach earth; the evening star whispers
chemical secrets—too many of us need
eight minutes for meaningful connection.
tomorrow it is already old news.
deadline, USA.

refine the mind
in this year of pruning—
dull swords that pierce the side,
blunt and afraid, calling birds to sing.
sabrage, pinched spy, sabrage the fiend,
raging out from the age of patriarchs.
life itself is a state of matter.

pearls splatter in fur,
oil flowering across the water—
sprinkles of this, a dash of that,
erasing footprints in the sands
of an entropy trap.

auguries hold sequenced superpositions;
perils mushroom, tumbling rocks,
built-in bias—
artificial intelligence wielding
the sword of Damocles.

status hangs by tattered threads;
ruffled feathers blazoned
with precious trinitite stones.
peer through these glassy spherules
of unintended consequence:

the final nuclear autumn
inside never-ending summers,
magic-wand wolves
using fonts as decoy.

illusions beneath an artificial sun,
reincarnated from the little stronghold—
punctuations dug deep into silos,
a caved redoubt,
some Doonbeg Shiva,
loser of arms control.

beyond desire and hate, sparks—
a never-ending spiral staircase
spinning into a torus,

forbidden shapes erasing the line
between military and civilian life.
quasicrystals dance
in cubes of tessellation.

backlash in the word made flesh,
pace the frontier—
pace the frontier in x’s and o’s,
grace multiplying
through the dynamics of digital code,

saving life from ones and zeroes.

simpler times suffice:

post fire—
post ice—