MH17

  Speck 
  
  Bright insect 
  inching across the firmament. 
  
  First the shock front. 
  Then the blast wind. 
  
  Bodies fall like rags 
  into an airless sea. 
  
  
  Pixilation 
  
  Tiny squares unite to divide. 
  We see an ashen heap, 
  but the seal is not complete. 
  
  Here, a pair of legs alone. There
  a shoulder with its arm, 
  and then the hand, fingers spread. 
  
  
  Apron 
  
  A flap of the plane’s skin 
  hangs in the forest’s canopy 
  like titanic picnic litter. 
  
  Another sheet, insignia unfurled, 
  stands ready to sail 
  across a sea of rippling wheat. 
  
  Seats bask in the fields 
  in clusters of two or three. 
  Some on their sides, 
  others facing back up to the sky. 
  
  Each chunk of wreckage 
  with its apron of personal effects. 
  A suitcase, open-mouthed, allows
  a deep pink cardigan to escape. 
  
  
  Turbine 
  
  Your blades once sat 
  snug as gills inside their toadstool cap. 
  Now skewed and compressed 
  the blades look like the cutaway 
  
  of a chambered nautilus 
  nestled far from its element. 
  A shell bound by its ratio, 
  its beauty chained yet infinite.