There are hidden lies, the truth is adrift
a series of fragments, little rafts of refuge.
Endless rows of beds awaiting bodies
like a science fiction movie.
Ambulances whizz past, siren blaring --
people with masks calling bodies' names.
No sign of crowd, no car, no windswept trash
long stretches of vacant concrete.
Every musical note,
even the abstract holds its silence.
A few lovers slink along, hunch over and avert
The city empties out, never hold its own weight
the skyline dims.
The world will not be the same
without those who built it.
The word that exists in conversation with or in
resistance, an image is the art itself.