They are eating the photographs

Because

there is no bread

The photographs proliferate

Your excavated back looks suspended

we are looking down on you

And you are caught on the crumbs of buildings

we are standing on that

which stood on you

The space between the crumbled parts

of which you are a part

exists

For your ashen powdered self is

Dimensional and recognisable

I lifted a city off your face

My little ash-boy

My little dust-puppet

Of concrete grey and dusted edifices

Your black eyes are curious

Your toes are lifelike

Your black eyes are liquid

Your cheeks curve like apples

Your black eyes are alive

As we try not to see

Image: Damascus / Игорь М

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