dian

The End and the Beginning
After every warsomeone has to clean up.Things won'tstraighten themselves up, after all.
Someone has to push the rubbleto the side of the road,so the corpse-filled wagonscan pass.
Someone has to get miredin scum and ashes,sofa springs,splintered glass,and bloody rags.
Someone has to drag in a girderto prop up a wall,Someone has to glaze a window,rehang a door.
Photogenic it's not,and takes years.All the cameras have leftfor another war.
We'll need the bridges back,and new railway stations.Sleeves will go raggedfrom rolling them up.
Someone, broom in hand,still recalls the way it was.Someone else listensand nods with unsevered head.But already there are those nearbystarting to mill aboutwho will find it dull.
From out of the bushessometimes someone still unearthsrusted-out argumentsand carries them to the garbage pile.
Those who knewwhat was going on heremust make way forthose who know little.And less than little.And finally as little as nothing.
In the grass that has overgrowncauses and effects,someone must be stretched outblade of grass in his mouthgazing at the clouds.