Last night, I was in a grim, dusty, subdued Poland,
like a modern theatrical production imagining medieval gloom,
bleached palette, pre-industrial quiet, charred air.

Mud-covered bodies stumble larger towards me
aimlessly with insects, despair,
Ewa appears: their homes bombed,
bakeries breadless, our hunger is appropriate emptiness,
electricity is out, but what utility is a grid while everything dissembles?

Her impassive mien voids her words’ explanation, it is senseless.
I scan the wrecked skyline for a town center,
to head away, looking for my love.

I think I see her at the very limit of my vision,
emerging from a forest.
Three streets closer, traversed in silent time distortion of
film reeled out 8 frames per second,
I see it is not her.

An injured dog balanced on a bridge railing
gives the impression of her.
I cannot breathe deeply enough to
dispel fearful distress,
and wake.

© 2023 L. Acadia