Strange how that city still commands
attention after two thousand years—look
at that crowd watching the chimney for smoke.
Of course we were watching for smoke—
deciphering whatever messages it might be
sending: gather, flee, pray, hide, go back, weep.
One morning the three of us headed
down to the river to fish. All we caught
were coughs in the haze of wildfire smoke.
When the building was attacked,
the first thing I noticed was the smoke,
how it overwhelmed the scene and the sky.
If, like me, you’re lucky enough to not be
in a war, then every day you can witness
footage of wreckage, blood, fire and smoke.
Often the sky in the west leaves me breathless
at the sumptuous and radiant display that smoke,
yellows, reds, and purples make of the end of days.