catastrophes in the life of the city

glimmer of the young woman's nose ring
five short trees in a dead-end square
no one stops on the way to church

like a
fog spilling the valley below


a woman in tears

striking the gasoline leaves

in dreams so tired
of fatigue

"my parents are from Auschwitz"

celestial visions tell her on the phone
beneath palms whole curve

before windowless towers


under the old mission walls
where school children mustered
in single file on forgotten graves

a now hollow cinema

each one each ghost a caption typo

in the empty park postcard

phone