The screaming shells on television smoked

not milky as our boiling dinner’s steam.

No smolder could unhinge my daughter’s cries

her smallest terrors loomed astride that screen.

All relegated to those few square inches

as much to their pain as we would afford

so tanks could be eclipsed by errant gestures

and laughter peals outcackle airstrike roars.

But one night then I saw the bloody newsstream,

and watched it as a window in a prison.

I caught, for once, the bias of my mind

and glimpsed the twin flaws ever of our vision:

What's vast and far seems dwarfed by smallness near.

What’s seen each day will cease to reappear.