by David Radavich

These were once faces.

Faces of buildings,
faces of people.

Eyes of what artists
once longed for,
woven or carved.

Now strewn like scarves
after an assignation.

The assignation was war.
It did not end well.

Love stayed
in a far bedroom.

Now there’s nothing
but rubble and sun
relentless and cruel.

Step carefully.
You don’t want to fall
like our ancestors.

We’re beyond that now:
more civilized. Our bombs
drop at a distance
and happen to others.

Our ruins remain
yet to be seen.