Day 332

A man kneels in the rubble of his house,
searching for the remains of his children.
Anything — a sock, a piece of a t-shirt.
A hand.  A leg.  He kneels, weeping,
maybe praying.  Afraid of what he might find,
afraid he will find nothing.  Planes overhead.
Late summer.  The sky, already darkened,
darkening earlier.  He kneels, sorts 
through fallen concrete, shreds of a pillow,
a curtain, rung of a chair.  Is it enough
that he has lost everything?  That he can find
nothing he’s looking for?  A soldier, turning
what had been the corner of the street,
wantonly shoots him.  Stands 
casually, one hand
in a pocket, smoking a cigarette now,
watching blood stain the man’s shirt,
the concrete, the rubble
he had been kneeling in.