It is easy to leave
without looking back,
without remembering
a child’s words,
without enduring
the death of others,
without crawling out from
the scrap metal that was meant
to be a grave, to refrain
from waving when
the coffin continues
on its way, empty,
toward the permanent
exhibition of twisted
metal, toward
a child’s strings of words.
So much time
in the warehouse,
no one lives there,
the lights are still on
in the cabs of trucks
but the door does not
open, we have so
little room
to live so long
it goes on when
you cast the die.