The Task

to write about an ordinary

morning from the window.

a january 23rd

on monday, that’s all,

a simple picture:

open the drapes, observe

the sun in its blue soil,

leisurely shoveling snow-clouds.

Dnipro

where children also see the sun:

a raw wound in the sky’s

chest. and opens.

homes ooze out. whole walls drop

and raft through smoke.

horrible sounds, aimless, oar

the swoon of a new day—

and children—

whose ears like bell buoys

ring from impact,

toll for the living pulled beneath,

knell for a severed church steeple,

clang and clang for a ship’s light

in their dark forever hour.

Poplars

yes, i see them now.

their bones supplant my sunlit yard.

will they ever recover from horrible bugs?

i almost forgot

they swarmed last spring. omens. thousands.

slithering larvae hatched from webs,

stripped the leaves and girdled trunks.

in winter, brittle branches strain

to bear the beaming days to come,

the worlds ensnared,

eating themselves,

resigned to pain.

i look out the window,

look for a long time.