Ruin and Beauty

　　by Patricia Young

　　 It's so quiet now the children have decided to stop

　　 being born. We raise our cups in an empty room.

　　 In this light， the curtains are transparent as gauze.

　　 Through the open window we hear nothing

　　 no airplane， lawn mower， no siren

　　 speeding its white pain through the city's traffic.

　　 There is no traffic. What remains is all that remains.

　　 The brick school at the five points crosswalk

　　 is drenched in morning glory.

　　 Its white flowers are trumpets

　　 festooning this coastal town.

　　 Will the eventual forest rise up

　　 and remember our footsteps？ Already

　　 seedlings erupt through cement，

　　 crabgrass heaves through cracked marble，

　　 already wolves come down from the hills

　　 to forage among us. We are like them now，

　　 just another species looking to the stars

　　 and howling extinction.

　　 They say the body accepts any kind of sorrow，

　　 that our ancestors lay down on their stomachs

　　 in school hallways， as children they lay down

　　 like matches waiting for a nuclear fire.

　　 It wasn't supposed to end like this：

　　 all ruin and beauty， vines waterfalling down

　　 a century's architecture； it wasn't supposed to end

　　 so quietly， without fanfare or fuss，

　　 a man and woman collecting rain

　　 in old coffee tins. Darling，

　　 the wars have been forgotten.

　　 These days our quarrels are only with ourselves.

　　 Tonight you sit on the edge of the bed loosening your shoes.

　　 The act is soundless， without future

　　 weight. Should we name this failure？

　　 Should we wake to the regret at the end of time

　　 doing what people have always done

　　 and say it was not enough？