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.
 And nothing
   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.