whatever doesn’t happen
hasn’t happened—might most likely
awaiting its anticipated moment
flares up, virulent
not to the blow, but the quivering of despair
a yellow sound, backpedaling
intuition colored in collateral damage
gloom-smoke, roiling from the aftermath
a clenched apprehension, lurks beneath
every fear that hides a wish.
splinters as guilt from anxious hearts
corrupted by yesterday’s nightmare:
the man gathered 11bodies, including those
of four girls younger than 6,
and set fire to them . . .
he had something to do & apparently did it
or we would not be here
more so from regret soon to fossilize
to an artifact of indifference
diminished by the voice of progress
the point-of-view of evil: civilization
ratcheting up the tension
like holding a wolf by the ears
you won’t like it, but you’re scared to let go.