83.

The tribe of sleep has broken in

the walls buckling

the winds shaking our bones

Cats call in the alleys, earthly

mansions burn, others lie in ruin

the young howl, the old sob

And the seven hills smoke

like a typology, beasts like icons

or an apocalypse burst

Into the heart of time and this city.

All that can be feared is, what was

civil falls to the cinder-hearts

Of the invaders. We who crouch

also conceal, we hide to save our hides

the barbarity within us.

The sun breaks on the quiet

of our childhood. Those stars were your eyes

in a hyperbole beyond commonplace.