A year ago
the blades hidden beneath our garments
burst forth in a martial arts reverie
like an out-of-control fire-eating performance.
We withered under the white heat of dragon breath,
our scorched faces streaked with parallel water lines
as we reeled from yakinohara,
the Japanese word for
nuclear devastation – “burnt plains.”

Now we are stoic mannequins shuffling along
eating disappointment pudding.
Now we stand apart
full of broken love
like the statues of angels
shattered by the atomic bomb
in Nagasaki.

Sometimes after a bicycle accident
the front wheel keeps spinning
until it stops
and then the accident
is officially
over.

Michael Philips

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/yakinohara-marriage/