Poem

When I say look
a street will open wide,
gray above and red below,
no sky or level sea,

but peacock plumes of fire:
their flail and dance
in a broken window,
and panic's silver horn.

And when the clamor
you are deaf to stops,
leaving its sting and burn
plumb in the pit of your ear,

lie back in the echo,
in the still fluid of memory,
the beating of a primal pulse
in a wet black house.