White Sands Morning

A woman dreams


a breeze


across her body,


a lover's finger


glides up her calf.


She wonders,


should I wake?


Dreams die,


Reality sucks,


but possibility


awakens. Yes,


The Doomsday Clock


creeps closer to Midnight,


but that warm touch


makes her glow like


Uranium 235.


Let isotopes leach out into coolant,


allow subsequent failures


to breach the last layers.


"Hello, lover."


She arches back


silent


ready for meltdown


forever.