THE WAR REPORTER PAUL WATSON AND THE GIRL AND THE MOUNTAIN OF NOTHING.
What's in the mountain of nothing
? A girl
scrambling the summit with her eyes. Her mouth
hangs back. As if merely impressed. Wire mesh
in broken concrete like the antennae
of giant robot roaches. Squashed. While stairs
cascade sideways. And neighbors spin debris
out of vivisected bedrooms. These stones
like all the world's walls have been dismantled
and blizzarded over Homs. These coping
stones dashed, keystones unshrugged. Names and
dates wiped off cornerstones in the crash. But my eyes
adore the girl's clear-eyed stare.
worth noting. Or looting. This collapsed womb
of stories. Her friends inside. The girl spins
on her heel.
Windows blown out by the shock
-blast rattle and flute. Old men are stirring
like lovers in a daze. Blue jeans, outgrown
skirt on top. Hijab. A weathered bomber
coat like a trench. She holds a bag of bread
for someone, surely. Takes a step. A boy
strides past flipping his hood up to the rain
and looks at me. Then up at the mountain
of nothing. To see what I see. Nothing
worth noting, or looting, we walk on.