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.)