Big City, Little Dresden Dresden, 14 February 1945 Rob Wright We are children at play in the hot-tossed brick. The droning of the raiders, the insect dome, passed before dawn, and only the cathedral spire queens ruderal, amid the burning phosphorus which sticks to our shoes and shines like Pfennige. We are children at play in the hot-tossed brick. Soldiers are shooting old men and pinning 'deserter' to their chests. They fall in columns before dawn, and only the cathedral spire queens between the Opera and the Schloss. In the fountain, corpses black as roof-pitch swell and steam. We are children at play in the hot-tossed brick. They probably fought to get into the water, only to be par-boiled when the fire swept over before dawn, and only the cathedral spire queens above a Fat Boy, half-buried, still ticking. Sappers drive us off with stones and whistles. We are children at play in the hot-tossed brick, before dawn, and only the cathedral spire queens. (Rob Wright is a frequent contributor of poems and articles to the magazine. He lives in Philadelphia.)