An Ode to the Bombardment Squatron / Broken

An Ode to the Bombardment Squatron

The grand silence

before a historic happening
slips time.

In a deep ceramic well

of concentration
we empty
our mind
breathe slow
others smoke

on alert

anytime unclenching.
Then finally the awaking pop
of the drop – almost anti-climactic -

before sinking

deeper into a hole
of relief.

P.S.: This is definitely unprintable, mainly because of the subject matter, and its obsoleteness. This is like the sixth draft, and I don't think I have got it right. Still, I can't resist posting it here.

Broken

The moon a shard
of china plate.

What did she
once whole,

hold, to be now
empty,

broken?

P.S.: Edited. And still love this, no matter what others might think.