Forest of Noise

This is not a poem.

This is a grave, not

beneath the soil of Homeland,

but above a flat, light white

rag of paper.

Even

the sparrow on the lemon tree nearby wondered how they

could

move

with

no

wings.

She sings a night song to bury in the ground the sound of bombs,

to disappear the whirring of drones back into the clouds.