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OUR LIVES ON A SUMMER BREEZE
we have nothing but our hands.
Some fifty thousand refugees
stream out, the report states,
independently confirmed.
Rocket-propelled grenades punch
holes in all the barn roofs,
looting rampages along main street,
no food or medicine getting through,
she picks up the baby,
cluster bomb explodes,
you prick yourself on a thorn:
your lover is lying to you
one drop of blood sits on your fingertip.
a huge antlered stag silhouettes for an instant
against the night sky.
Rebuilding shattered dreams.
THE SUN ROSE ON A FOGGY
rain-soaked rags in the gutter
chalk drawings of disturbed children
living in abandoned houses
blackened roof shingles scattered across
floors inlaid with precious stone
piles of broken toys sinking
into moist earth at the bottom of the pit
charred dismembered dreams lying where they died
mass graves strewn with
rotting hearts and burnt minds
roof beams lying across the kitchen table
their village still off limits
until its goals are achieved
the ten American corporations
which own the media
ordered them to leave or be shot
when she realized that she had to live bravely
and the sun shines darkness too
SHEET METAL FLAPS IN THE BREEZE
jets strafe the country road
packed with the day's refugees
fireballs over the vegetable market
a premature greenness haunts the fields
blind men wash the streets
magpies wing above the ruins
sprouts still encircle the stump
the eldest would have been eight years old
she haunted recesses of his mind
all those wasted years
nothing at the scene evidenced
a military target
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