I’d bury my face in my hands but

somebody has to do it,

set the records straight: the combs were hers, the razors were his,

and the naked wax doll with the head missing 

was mine. I’ll step away from the ruins into the sunset.

I’ll take a match to the whole thing,

I’ll throw it away, the paper.

In the old days, the sun

was stronger,

so full of ambition that it saw through pockets

and blindfolds. No more.

They’ve taken away birds, they’ve taken down rafters.

I’m on display, and the sun watches me—

that’s wrong,

it’s completely self-possessed.

What if I’ve become one with the rubble?

Do I matter less than splinters of glass?

Do I matter less than spaces where doors used to be?

A button I’ve lost turns up—

it’s here in the ashes, and so are my old gloves.

Why do my hands cast shadows on broken white walls?

A last bird cries, making a wild guess.

Here, nothing is private:

The dirt, camouflaged by scorched grass,

shows through in spots like

bare skin on a dead horse’s hide.

A few more leaves are absent today,

and everyone knows it.