Two Worlds
I’d looked out expecting the usual vista, instead
there was this – a shot from a newsreel taken root
in my garden, the land surrounding us crumbling
to mounds around beehive-shaped houses; men
who had squatted here, smoking, disputing, moved on
with their goats and horses. Did war catch up with them,
stealing the chickens, poisoning the wells?
Village returning to desert. In place of fruit trees,
the small garden shed, these desolate buildings,
walls pockmarked by shadows, the days scorching,
nights lapped in the ache and creak of frost. I blinked,
the picture stayed put. Then I dressed and went out,
climbed the high steps like a revenant, wondering
where I now lived, which street we were on.
Page(s) 27
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