Frost clings to the chimney pots,
Spangling a billion tiny suns,
Across the rooftops and under the eaves,
Melted by dreams,
Billowing from within.
Fearful of cracking,
These fragile walls
The birds sing into the white cotton,
Of this blue jar.

Still, the child runs,
From tanks thundering,
And Kalashnikovs singing,
Hides in the doorway,
And waits for the monsters to pass.
His dusty head rattles with milk teeth,
And his wet eyes sting,
As the walls crumble,
Like bread.

The first rumble of commuters,
Drifts through the air,
The birds sing above,
A micro-babble of gadgetry
Sleeping hands
Start kettles whistling,
And toasters glowing,
While others
still
dream