In the peace before the bomb I saw
no heard a van cantilevered in green
weird orange sunlight, flutter
of a half-gone phonebook shut
on the sand: this was the test
to measure the potential of hydrogen
and gilt and gold-haired ogres to evaporate
like a fantasy. Some hoary poet had
made a seed in the oak burl of his heart
and now some wide-eyed Jack was searching
the cracked condos trying to find it. I see
miles out here. I see movement
in unmoving things. And I see all
the knots in the wood, each time
something burned or exploded.
I scatter it further, filigree it with fleurs-de-lis.
I flip a coin for what to wreck next.
Your cover is over. This poem is a hex.