A balcony, violet shade on stucco fruit in a plastic bowl on the iron
raggedy legged table, grapes and sliced melon, saucers, a knife, wine
in a couple of thick short tumblers cream cheese once came in: our snack
in the eye of the war There are places where fruit is implausible, even
rest is implausible, places where wine if any should be poured into wounds
but we’re not yet there or it’s not here yet it’s the war
not us, that moves, pauses and hurtles forward into the neck
and groin of the city, the soft indefensible places but not here yet

Behind the balcony an apartment, papers, pillows, green vines still watered
there are waterless places but not here yet, there’s a bureau topped
with marble
and combs and brushes on it, little tubes for lips and eyebrows, a dish
of coins and keys
there’s a bed a desk a stove a cane rocker a bookcase civilization
cage with a skittery bird, there are birdless places but not
here yet, this bird must creak and flutter in the name of all
uprooted orchards, limbless groves
this bird standing for wings and song that here can’t fly

Our bird quilted wine poured future uncertain you’d think
people like us would have it scanned and planned tickets to somewhere
would be in the drawer with all our education you’d think we’d
have taken measures
soon as ash started turning up on the edges of everything ash
in the leaves of books ash on the leaves of trees and in the veins of
the passive
innocent life we were leading calling it hope
you’d think that and we thought this it’s the war not us that’s moving
like shade on a balcony