Poetry alert: Fault
Fault
Lazy lying in the fog that condenses around my headlands.
Unmoving to the eye for years.
Flanks dry and overgrown.
Volatile -- on the surface, but what is burned away there soon grows back
no matter how strong the wind that fans the flames:
Boiling -- slowly -- deep inside where the pressure is great and steady,
So deep that unless my mantle shifts
Nobody will ever know it.
Rarely
And without credible warning
That mantle shifts.
I move, millimeters or centimeters along my inevitable path:
Devastation follows:
And I lie, lazy, in the glare of the afternoon and the fog
Of morning,
Unmoving to the eye
No matter how strong the winds of change.
On another front, I sent of convoy and dog to Oceans of the Mind and City Shadows respectively.
On yet another front, I have an idea for a new chapter for Afterwar involving more medical technology and distance from the front.
And since nobody told me the query letter's stupid, I'm going to look at it one more time and then use it.