We though heat
          a reparative measure

but now that temperatures
have risen
the accumulation
          of months

slides in a subtle
          nearly unnoticeable

          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
we walk on
          the heart of (what is)
          the matter.