on the hillside. Sockets of empty windows
showed the road their aged, sightless stare.
We climbed the stairs, bent beneath our packs
as if we were two thieves, hauling our loads
of goods and guilt slung across our backs.
A living village spilled from still, dead stones;
mocking children and goats traced our tracks
through the bone-white dust around their squalid homes.
But when we reached the top, they left us there.
Inside the skull, we hung from the hill alone,
alone but for the sun nailed in the air,
whose beams crossed through the cracks
everywhere.
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