If the instruments failed,
who would catch the tell-tale click-clack?

Over the stars –
the missiles’ wind-blown kiss.

Spooky light of soybeans, of corn, chokes
on irrigation’s flow.

If millennia crunched to a day,
decay would be self-evident.

Particles would bleed right through
the Geiger counter’s panicked b.p.m.

The fields echo sullen green
against a heart’s surveillance.

A fugitive’s anonymous sprint — ashes —
shadow burns across a wall.