It's been nearly a week since
any warplanes pierced these clouds,
though all summer it's been raining

flocks of poisoned birds
on the empty lot behind my house
where the elementary school used to be.

This was before the firefighters
burned it down because of the library.
The ground almost seems still

to be smoldering, & I imagine myself
a sad-eyed archaeologist sifting
through lingering memories of Pompeii.

I can't help but feel that the world
is no longer charged with the grandeur of God.
I can't help but feel the crunch of the hollow

skeletons under my soles. Perhaps it is this
that compels me to pause, to cradle a tiny
avian skull, touch the pad of a forefinger

carefully over one fractured eye socket,
put the void of the other one to my mouth
& blow softly into it, as if it were

some kind of flute. The world is no longer
fit even for autotuned song to emit
from a beak which now detaches itself

in response to my wavering breath.
The skull turns to chalk in my palm.
Softly, I clap, imagine myself

a child who just emerged from a classroom,
two erasers clasped in his tiny hands
like cymbals that can make no sound.