In a month
we will not
remember,

an open guidebook,
a child’s drawing,
a map of Bali–

dreams scattered
in an open field.

The sun will
rise and set,
moonlight will
be moonlight–
indifferent to
the mean ambitions
of men with guns.

Only the
earth will
remember
what we
choose
to forget–
red poppies
falling from
the sky.