In midday I watched the children play
outside my classroom window
on the west side of town.
I thought how bright the paper is inside
with blues and limes and how proud
the colors stand within its skin—
a pioneer for the small and tender.

With the last of the spiders wiped
with pencil textiles I could hear
tiny howls, a gathering of five boys
throwing around a football,
invisible behind thumb-greased glass.

Surely children’s beady-eyes, bright with hopes
for gutted knees and grass-filled mouths
are a life lesson of their own.

But, outside is a war and I am watching
against a patchy globe rondure, the blur
of a boy beaten down around the ball;
the white lace blazing,
a sunlit fire pit of loss.

It was like watching nerves of growth
as moving ocean current; the ripples carrying
them along onto island sand.
The red-shirted boy holding onto himself,
clenching for breath while the others like flies
surrounding the pig, hovering over meat
raw and stiff.