Dennis Maulsby


The satellite camera clicks.
In a globe of clouds and air
a tiny city shakes.
White flakes swirl in streets
between smoking glass towers.
The telephoto lens zooms closer.
Vines of fire snake-crawl upwards.
Shattered crystal eyes weep little dolls
to fall and break upon the concrete.
Stone and metal avalanche down,
sweep away men in blue and yellow.
Smoke and ash billow out
to make running people gray,
no black, white, red or brown,
a day of only one race —
they beg for a hundred years of sleep.