the ice  is so delicate

shot through with spider web fracture

though the danger lies not in crashing through

but in the bursting forth


i read once in an old book of Chinese tales

of a pompous ass of an official

who refused to heed the old monk’s warnings

and broke into the sacred vault where the demon lay waiting

to be fulfilled

and now

it’s just like that

the melting cries of an infant

drowning in the fire of it’s own tears

the whine and shriek of the shrapnel torn air

all the lights dimmed and flickering

muttered excuses so flimsy they are transparent

in the face of the frozen moment

seventy years of catastrophe


vexed to nightmare

no rough beast

only a slouch

a whim

a twitter

a twit.


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