But for these cans they tossed and blended
with the dust
But for the playgrounds fading silent
into rust
But for the houses, husks now—grinning,
windows shed
But for the metal carriages, upright,
sentries dead
But for the carcasses washed up ashore
blanched in heat
But for the pigs that they did not slaughter—
now rotting meat
But for the signs that here was a hand
that killed for play
But for the world turned inside out
for a short-lived stay
You would not know that here were men
and women once.
The storm breaks where the land meets sky
the sun beats down
the snow, too, melts
in the highway, now, two peacocks dance.
