We though heat
a reparative measure
but now that temperatures
have risen
the accumulation
of months
slides in a subtle
nearly unnoticeable
disarray
faucets dripping
time ticking
heart skipping
(still). Silence–
what we thought had
battened us–
forms a clear
and present danger
in the blind
light of day
hangs above us
an icy arrow
a silver sword
aimed at the very
ground
we walk on
the heart of (what is)
the matter.
