3D Pain

a poem by Mark Kessinger I wonder what the winds are likeat Cuba's four thousand foot peaks. Is there a space-age drone, military grade,that can hover at the top like a gullgliding into the jet stream, stationary,peering down to let us see the 155 mph windssharpen the granite ridge to a razor edge.Or can we mount a metal post up therewith camera pivoting with its metal cowllike an indestructible kite, as our witnessto the slope and slip of debris at ramp's end,and see what devastation drops leeward. Or a bunker of stone, concrete, reinforcedlike a bomb shelter, to show us the savagenessof slung forces cut in half by rocky outcrop,letting drop into the swell of gravity,those things rightfully heir to the earthonce the winds have played enough. There are ways we could be thereat the storm's eye: once the vistaof only gods, and the doomed.