Here, now, a half-dozen people
are nearly touching one another
under the rubble
of the Salvation Army
thrift store.
By evening, I have exhausted
the coverage. There’s a photo
of a family standing at the edge
of the cluttered lot. To their left,
an excavator rests
with its head down.
Dust coats the daughters’ hair.
They’ll be gone as soon as the light changes.
Their car is just around the corner;
with the walls gone, you can see it.
What surrounds the car is full of holes:
lens flares burn through other buildings
and faded billboard advertisements.
Street signs with bent stems—
casualties—
stick out of the broken sidewalk.
World is ready to cave in.