Melting

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The day the ice melted, the Honda door
finally opened. Hours had swarmed each crystal
falling in phantasma, geometric and full in grid.
No hours were falling then. One no-hour drove
the lock tight solid. That's how it was, the neck broken
from the head. That's how the house steamed,
its geologic pores in slender daytime, the oniony
imperative door confixed in slow manner back off
motion, the muskoxed eyes burrowing in a café.

The President announced a Mars exploration fitfully,
as if he knew something more about God,
as rock-blooded managers pounded their footsteps
behind his back in all blind spot and accounts drained.
Poor arrogance has no heart for change, he swallowed.
What was he saying? Yet now the ice was melting further,
from wings of the jets and the people's runways.
The ice had whooped up its plants of ice on the back
of the plants themselves, as the ice of company money
did enhold the backs of saving and spending
a regular person had been sliding and trying.

Now it was melting. Ten thousand glasses
of water were running. Errands had been baking
quick hours up into the newly spoken.
What had been held back could now be
slightly more called upon.