Floe (a poem)

One eye dilated this afternoon, making the world look decidedly weird…

A less-than for a lesser man
stretched out across the thin ice—
a chain gang of pretenders
inept at rescue
coming to the aid
of no one worth saving

When the sound of words has no meaning
I don’t exactly flounder
but have trouble making sense of what I’m hearing
even if I know what it means

The black-hole cutout in the orange blob
keeps twitching
protruding farther and farther
the more they push back

At the bottom of the scrum
flesh grinds into mud
but the sound of the bones breaking
gets drowned out by the agonized grunts

The audio tracks go mute
to emphasize the gravity of the moment
and give space for the motion of the camera to slow
to a dramatic blur

The chain gang snaps at random intervals
no one worth saving breaks through the ice

The ice, sheet-thin and buckling in the Indian summer of winter
surrendering to the pretense
vows to return
with vengeance

(31 December 2018)

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