By Alan Dunnett
This was after the shops had closed. I knew
at once that the empty streets would never
be filled again. I thought for a moment
that I could hear the breathing of all those
who had passed by today and yesterday
and all the days narrowing back in time.
I knew those days had taken place and that
the memory of an exhalation,
the last one, remained in the air's stillness,
invisible but present, arrested,
falling into oblivion only
at the dark point of eradication
which was yet to come and when it did,
even then there would be a trace of bones
made into fine, pre-Etruscan dust
long dispelled but not in the hearts of men
forgotten, though you might think so. You kill
me but I am not dead. I speak to you now.