The refugees in their desert camps
are sleeping.
The nomads have put out the little fire
they sit around.
Even the birds in the dark trees
have folded their wings over their walnut faces
and do not fear
the vultures that prey on flesh.
The world is used up
for another day of existing, scrounging, finding scraps of joy
and cloth, and gone to bed.
The soccer ball rests on the ground far from the net.
The crippled child lies in a bed of rags. Flies walk across
her face. Perhaps in the dark, she is running
after the ball with the others, perhaps she is being
scooped up in an hysterical dance.
Not one drop of rain has fallen. Not one gust of wind
has erupted. Today I am free of pain.
Used with the permission of the author.