�����������Dust speaks its riddles on the mantle,
a child draws the face of a donkey-
�����������Gun-toting men huddle against dark
corners, a souring of their mouths,
�����������their eyes beacons lit by the one candle.
There's the sound of water dripping
�����������outside,
that sound, the flitting of a gnat
trapped in an empty vase.� Shadows
�����������pass, then a grinding of the tank treads
crunching rubble, a gun turrets' grind,
�����������moving into position.�
In penumbra
and dusk, an infant cries, rubs sting
�����������from its swollen eyes.�
A man, a woman
rush to its side.� The woman hushes
�����������it with a soft-wail song.�
The man prays.
Rain falls as if the world would suddenly
�����������drown and everything would be green
and outside you could hear the birds
�����������calling out from the fruit tree, a serpent
coiled on its bark, stretching to reach the apple.
