The city is at war. I can see
the ripples from these offices. I stand,

a silhouette against the checkerboard
of windows, squares of pavement slabs to cast

my shadow onto. Out, below, the bombs
go off; the crowds of people beat their heads

against a black and blue and day-glo wall.
Before, the discontented smoked and dreamt

and sucked each others’ air. Above, I bend
my back, become a bridge from one frontier,

across a river wide as no-man’s-land,
as cold as barricades and riot shields.

The crowds climb onto roofs, and shout, and surge
to try to swallow enemies. I hide,

the central panel of a triptych, at
the middle window, still, observing like

a journalist. There are two cities here,
like feuding lovers trapped in the same room.

Perhaps the liars’ tongues will fatten now
that unkept promises glow luminous.

The citizens, the streets, torn up like seams.
The city is at war with itself.