Here it hits us hard.
Tiny victories won without weight
and ruptured like shattered slate.
We keep up a guard
of fragile, sugar-spun ice
panes of glass, a thinnest thread
a spider-web. We mourn the dead
but know they were a sacrifice.
Inverse in-and-out
with translucent skin glowing
and volcano-hearts faintly showing
but pale exteriors' doubt.
6 feet above the 6-feet-under
ear pressed to the dirty smear of land
eyes averted from the sneer of man
and directed to the soundless I-wonder.
Here it hits us worst
this is where we die at first.