Empty School Building Poetry

It has its own noises, not mine, not all the children who laughed here. It has its own darkness. Light from broken windows doesn’t stop that. Yet I fail to find a place where wind doesn’t blow, where sounds of the street, where sirens don’t call. They call the children, where all the deadness of this place would be rotting, warmly, where I can close my eyes and feel the love. I read the names of children who are now dead written on the walls. All the words that were said here are like light from broken windows: In lightly, it doesn’t warm the place. All the wood is very hard. I write my name on the wall; I spit on the floor.

July 1971