In Rubble

Right after the bomb, even before the ceiling

   And walls and floor are rearranging

      You and themselves into a different world,

You must hold still, must wait for them

   To settle down in unpredictable ways,

      To bring their wars, shuddering,

To an end, and only then should you begin

   Numbly to feel what freedom may be left

      To your feet or knees, to your elbows

Or clenched fingers. Where you used to walk

   Or lean or lie down or fix your attention

      At a whim or stomp your foot

Or slump in a chair, you'll find a new

   Architecturally unsound floor-plan

      To contend with, if you can move

At all. Now you may remember others

   Who were somewhere near you before

      This breakdown of circumstances. Caught by surprise

Like you, they may be waiting separately

   At their own levels, inside their own portions

      Of your incoherent flat. They may be thinking

Of you, as you are of them, and wondering

   Whether some common passageway, no matter

      How crooked or narrow, might still exist

Between you, through which you might share the absence

   Of food and water and the cold comfort

      Of daylight. They may be expecting you

To arrive at any moment, to crawl through dust

   And fire to their rescue as they find their bodies

      Growing more stiff, assuming even more

Unusual attitudes at every turn

   Of a second hand, at every sound

      Of a bell or an alarm, at every pounding

Of a door or a heart, so if you can't reach them

   Now and they can't reach you, remember, please

      Remember, whatever you say,

Whatever you hear or keep to yourself, whatever

   You scream or whisper, will need to make

      Some kind of sense, perhaps for days and days.