The City

for the Balkans. 

empty                                                                         city                            
                          i walked down swept streets with
                             clinical lights so bright
                                 you could hardly see
 
                                    the shadows
                                  of market criers
                              and their deflated lungs
                                     un-inspired
 
                                flaking figures run
                            crumple into snow and burn
                                   --ash, ash--
                               in one frozen instant
 
                                   don’t turn to see
                                   ash trees smoking
                        turban topped gravestones tipped with
                                   icing of pure pain
 
                          b.; d. dates four years apart
                         their skins old wrinkled parched
 
                          but on part of the foundered rubble
                              a stubble of a tree grows
                          and in its shade an old man feeds
                          the birds who came with the bombs


The Blobbing Fish