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3D Pain

a poem by Mark Kessinger

 

I wonder what the winds are like

at Cuba’s four thousand foot peaks.

 

Is there a space-age drone, military grade,

that can hover at the top like a gull

gliding into the jet stream, stationary,

peering down to let us see the 155 mph winds

sharpen the granite ridge to a razor edge.

Or can we mount a metal post up there

with camera pivoting with its metal cowl

like an indestructible kite, as our witness

to the slope and slip of debris at ramp’s end,

and see what devastation drops leeward.

 

Or a bunker of stone, concrete, reinforced

like a bomb shelter, to show us the savageness

of slung forces cut in half by rocky outcrop,

letting drop into the swell of gravity,

those things rightfully heir to the earth

once the winds have played enough.

 

There are ways we could be there

at the storm’s eye: once the vista

of only gods, and the doomed.