Bombing

by Rudi Matic

Difficult, to long remain
       Disinterested, when one peeps
Down sheer crevices of pain.
       Wrought metaphysic deeps

Leave one disconsolate.
        The innocent victims’ blood –
Where is the sense in it?
       Though we dream the Good,

Its tantalizing ghost
       Dissolves at the approach.
Cry ‘Stay’, but Good’s each host
       Collapses at a touch.

What gloss then can we give,
       Acceding neither to dust’s
Bleak augur, nor the seductive
       Hitlers of the unconscious?

Where frost falters, perhaps:
       Spring’s shoots, the buds and nubs:
Being’s short-lived naps
       Shrugged off. Birth’s vivid cubs.