Minor Details
We lie on a fallen beach
within the sooty winds of the east.
What makes a war-stroke city
so human and inhuman?
Far missiles are weaving
the heavens of a scorching summer.
Minor details like red blobs
on a ragged tutu.
The bittersweet scent of fires
makes our eyes water deliciously.
Or a tin prosthetic leg shining
behind a cracked window.
In this new world of water
scarcity, we lick each other’s tears.
Or a glassy eye seen from the half
open zip of a black body bag.
Sirens start to announce
another curfew down in humid shelters.
Or playing tag with the bullets,
but never being the it.
We run under the sudden rain
of an air strike, hand in hand, laughing.
Or a ruddy painting of a dusky beach
pierced by shrapnel pieces.
