Shedding the Braided Chains

 O gentle kiss of death For this you longed, The touch of his sweet lips, His whispered song. Unloved and unloving You searched with pain For his crimson mouth now bloodied With your life's stain. The winter winds blow coldly Through your withered soul. The bud, unblossomed, breaks Before the vernal thaw.

Is it wrong to say That these eyes Suck in the light of day? Do I err to start a trend That holds these ears  Are open at the other end? That these hands  Love to touch, indeed touch to love, And of that touching, never love enough. All the world spills in these sensual pits Enjoyed,  But unresolved by human wits. Granted these simple truths, in fact our curse, I declare within this skull Exists the universe! This surly tongue dropping words into your ears, These grasping hands, These eyes shedding sympathetic tears, Declare that even in the darkness of the fading day, We lean our heads together, Remaining eternities away.

The Monument  We didn't know what to think of it at first; there were so many more important considerations to deal with after the bombs had stopped. Our primary concerns, of course, were the external condition of the shelter and its ability to resist the fallout, as well as the reliability of the decontamination units for air and water. How much more meaningful now is the wry smile of the technician who installed the shelter when I stupidly asked him about the warranties. Almost smirking, he said, "Sure, if you have any problems, just give us a call and we'll send the first available person!" I still imagine my message melted and mutely captured in the copper pools that were once the telephone lines. Then there was the food supply. Were the infinitesimal particles of radioactive dust excluded by the lead lining of the cans? Was the aluminum plating on the inside of the cans preventing leaching of the lead into the food? These speculations were only the latest iterati...