Waiting For the Thawing of An Afterwards

Ice shrouds over the hunched houses where blood and flesh huddle and wait. An ice ravaged face rears up from an invisible earth its fangs blackened by a tooth-aching light, more flesh piercing incisors dagger down from the clamped and sunken roofs. What wreckage there is, is buried hidden from sight, but it is not a clean landscape. Not a landscape at all but a telltale footprint, a restructuring of destruction. What was once seen as a town is gone. Not forever (drama makes actors of us all), but we talk now in a past tense language of 'back then' and not of any postcard view of tomorrow - not yet.