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.