Our Lives on a Summer Breeze

by John Curl

we have nothing but our hands.
Some fifty thousand refugees
stream out, the report states,
independently confirmed.
Rocket-propelled grenades punch
holes in all the barn roofs,
looting rampages along main street,
no food or medicine getting through,
she picks up the baby,
cluster bomb explodes,
you prick yourself on a thorn:
your lover is lying to you
one drop of blood sits on your fingertip.
a huge antlered stag silhouettes for an instant
against the night sky.
Rebuilding shattered dreams.