The Grate In Doors

The indoors burn with
natural gases, incensed 
by incendiary last night.

Flowers and owls look down.
Inhabitants creature low
determined not to grieve.

Leaves of mass, barely
Catholic enough to translate
Whitman into oatmeal.

Outside lost civilization
when walls and wells 
went up and deep.

Sleep dreams safety.
Trust trusses bridges
whose slumbers cannot fall.

Morning smoke broke calm
the bread of a billion bodies
overlooked window pain.