We were all there to watch the darkness
happen. The trains moved into it, the bums,
the losers, the lost and stepped upon
watched it rise above their tilted heads.
No more yellow, no more green, no more
calming white light, no King of France
bright madness in the lightness of air,
or bathing beauties on their wobbling yachts.
Just this, like a mouse standing still
on the kitchen floor before it moves
and is gone, a window shut and warm
before it gathers frost. We rolled up
our sleeves in the middle of a hundred
years of conflict. We put out the flames,
then waited for more. Listening to the wind
and rain, we wondered where would we go
when it was time to be perfect? What would
we do when it was time to be still?
Photograph by Jose Padua