poem a sometimes #something something

ON SEEING A PICTURE OF A MUSHROOM CLOUD, AFTER THE INITIAL BLAST

How the head of it just
floats away, only tendrils
of radiation, smoke, connect
it to the base unfurling like my
neighbor's flag on Memorial Day
snapping in the wind.

These are the things we cannot escape.
The blast, just another
choice made in an unspooling,
knotted sting. The space between
before and after is so thin

the men in the bunker just outside the blast
barely have time
to hold their breath
but already their chests are tight--

already they have forgotten how to breathe.