A CENTO – ((stolen prose fragments from The Control of Nature by John McPhee))
The crisis was simple and economic,
decorated with a relief model –
to keep them from plunging through.
Fireworks flew high into their interiors,
molten, growling, and weighed
two-thirds of a mile a piece.
As it happened, the edge never being stationary,
one cubic metre of flowing lava, of
prescription beer, and the wind shifted,
houses burst into flame mechanically,
and never took no for an answer.
The volcano came loose, extending
like a finger halfway across the harbormouth.
Dad swims up to the glass in a “silent
scream of terror” and felt but a mild quake
when the living room imploded
and removed itself hereafter.