How I wish your respite’s rush had failed
as your fallout’s arc sweeps
like the sweaty arm of one drunk
along knife-scarred oak,
clearing the way through pint and shot
for the flannel-cloaked back of another,
then drives like a curve of horn
through best bone, gild and blossom
yielding like the ground along a slipping fault
while saucers smash and teacups
shed their curves like leaves.
But worse than breaking, the demolition
clouds settling like snow around your victory,
is the cheer the watchers raise,
celebration echoing along a crater of collateral.