Solstice, Entering Capricorn

In distant states, the snow is falling

over silent fields that hide

the missiles, blue deer

running in the frozen woods behind the wind,

the winter apples black as figs,

choke cherries buried

in the plates of ice beyond recall.

In submarines, off shore, sub-zero weather,

warheads sleep

like prehistoric fish with one eye open.

Hammerheads move slowly through the depths;

the minnows darken.

Wolves tug firmly on their leash of sound

in Russian steppes

as bombers wait in icy hangars,

pilots shiver through the dreamless sleep

of those on call.

The black crows gather overhead in minds

of mice and rabbits. Spinning

in an ether all its own,

the earth knows nothing of its slow disease

as Capricorn, the goat-horn, digs

for spring, unable to contain its forward

tilt, its ignorant religion.