Olympic mountains hover
after midnight on t.v.,
awaking western watchers
with the threat of victory.
The Russian peaks resplendent
with a snow as white as ours
belie a time when megatons,
not ribbons, measured powers;
when missiles sat in silos,
fully dressed, awaiting word,
and mutual destruction
was the only prize assured.
The voicelessness of mimes in trees,
like toilet paper hung on breeze,
or choking back an ardent sneeze,
the subtle change as droplets freeze,
springs into life upon dead air,
transmission interruptus there:
where once was music shrill and loud
now hangs a huge but silent cloud.
Some spark or neuron has extinguished.
Aural lifeline’s been relinquished.
Sound waves flattened, noise turned white,
hearing distant, severed kite.
Snake in the grass
is an elegant motion.
Coil the horizon
’round ships in the ocean.
The poetry of air
is in the breeze.
The plight of life
is not to bite but squeeze.
I once mistook
an uncle for an eel.
It took him four long
painful months to heal.
