outside, amid the rubble, stands a mound two
soldiers high, made of bricks and mortar, and
cement and steel twisted up with everyday life,
where tables and chairs and beds and blankets
tumble carelessly, askew in the hot sun that beats
ceaselessly against a refrigerator toppled on its’ head,
and upon on a sewing machine halted mid-stitch,
the needle poised above the hem of a flowered dress