I walk the town
streets, gathering in my palms
a cold wind, a hollow splash
of a café, an empty palace
of the night, and
catch the aroma of a wistful bar
blurred mumbles of regular customers
before everything vanishes when
the nocturnal glow of lamplights fade
dissipating like a blast of air.
Little remains where
old friends gathered for drinks
but it's not as they say.
Look, I told them, sifting
my hands through ash and rubble,
there is something hidden here in
spaces undefined by human eyes.
Shapes here, lines there--what more
does one need?
They looked on unflinching, unconvinced.
In the work of tragic destructions
they see snuffed brightness, lines and
strokes of older architects, whereas I am
blinded by the contours of present moments
and squint to see the spectrum
of their old light
imperceptible to an ignorant gaze.
Nevertheless, I grab a handful
a mess of shapes, shadows, lines,
dust raining through the cracks of my cupped hands.
These replace our fountains, I say,
to which they turn away unimpressed, shaking
their heads in dismissal, thoroughly
uninterested in my pitiful attempt
to make conversation. Perhaps,
their eyes attuned to those radiant
wavelengths, their spectrum of light,
and followed its contours until they fell
like the buildings all around us collapsed to
flashes of artillery fire, spilling shrapnel
memories of artillery fire and bomber planes.
So they turn away; whereas I
still search through wreckage in an attic
because it's where you find everything
you don't need.
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