Slow Poem 4

Russian Meteor Poem

He heard noises, like claps,saw a trail of white streaking,
and froze.
It was a burning freezing.
Then came taps on the glass
and a constant, shuddering wail.
Pinpricks of pain on his face and arms,
a taste like rust.
Peering from where once were windows
from what once were eyes,
his daughter's face, ruined.

-Collaboration with Traci Loudin