In every time zone

a soldier patrols the perimeter of the site
in a certain kind of loneliness.
He persists but I do not.

A prayerful moth, rather large,
finds sanctuary on top of the blinds
but we do not.

Momentary gladness fills the room,
grace ends with a smile.
Your presence fills nothing but the void
as a car loading explosives at dawn
shuts prophecy down for the day.
It is grown here and exported, how?

Radishes grow into melons.
Dogs scattered in various poses
at the road side, mangled and all
quite dead. How can this be?
Who is painting the roads red?

A minaret is climbing through the arcadia door
it is almost beautiful, a knick knack.
The men in clusters near the bottom
count several angles. Another balances
high on the scaffold with bare chest.
A slaughter in the dust one year ago
and next year my decorations will
sing everything is loved once
before building a reputation, wherever that is.