Day 1,067

with gratitude to Eyal Weizman

Bulldozers move over the dirt,
picking it up, depositing it
somewhere else. Covering over
fingers, feet, portions
of skulls. Covering over
your grandmother’s tears,
your three-year-old’s cries
in the night. The earth
has become a mass grave.
Ten, twenty feet under the topsoil
a whole world is inhabited:
your friends, your neighbors.
Arguments. Conversations.
Words of kindness. Words
of love: all
buried, all covered over
by fragments of stone, concrete,
sheetrock. The objects
of their solitude, tools
of their desire: deep
in the ground they lie
and will never be found.
Will be bulldozed, hidden.
Taken to where they can’t
be dug up, identified, named.
Added again and again to the wreckage.