• Vol. 05
  • Chapter 11
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Porcelain perhaps,
But it could just as well be plastic.
The naked eye
Is not what it used to be.

A music box possibly,
Enclosed within the base
Of this dainty statuette—
A harpist, dressed in a white gown,
Hand hovering near the strings
Without spaces between them,
Fused together, unending orange
Of porcelain, or plastic,
Or something one has not dreamed.

Don’t talk about the black
Gas mask she wears,
Or the black tank clinging to her back
Like a witch’s familiar.
Don’t even go there.

If there is music in her ensemble,
One suspects a key hidden underneath
The base, waiting to be twisted;
And if there is music,
Do we really want to hear the bombs,
Shrieks, wailing ululations,
Crash of buildings, dripping of blood,
Inhalation of poison vapors—
Accompanied by delicate notes
Of sublimated terror?



Everything will be destroyed.
Everything has been destroyed already.
The phoenix will rise again,
But in what form?

Porcelain, perhaps,
But it could just was well be plastic.
The naked eye
Isn’t what it used to be.