, , ,

                                                 (on any war torn street)

      in your absence, Peace,
we walk the streets
collecting loose scraps –

pieces that we hope
 will solve the puzzle,
some secret understanding
that will make it conceivable

to go on living…
some moment that will hasten
your slow homecoming.
Until you arrive,

we build on sand, our tears
a rising tide but these damned spots
don’t wash out.

Console me.
War is such an ache
and time is only an estimate.
The echo never ends.