I wonder how many
holes are in the ceiling,
how many windows
they built to filter
out the smell
nothing consumes.
I wonder how many beams
it takes to hold
up such misery,
this mound of mortar
stunted by the sun.
I wonder how many
thoughts have faded
in this room,
how many dreams
sailed to the ceiling
and were never
dreamt again.
I wonder if the
winds from the sea
do the same
to the flicker
of a flame as
the pedals of
a cog do here;
and how many
people worked so
hard just to become
so white and framed.
I wonder if they'll
come back for me,
but it's too
dangerous to
wonder that now.