All Lit Up - Poems

From Europe after the rain Chris Meredith

the madman and the statue stare
at the blackened flags,
the scattered bits, the empty space

and nothing has ever been so still
as this:
the figures that could be bits of wall
the blistered walls that could be live
and puncturing the fret of green and rust
the poison rinse of chlorine sky
without a wing alive in it
without a wing alive.