Where there’s a new spider,
debris appears to float in your
shared habitat.

                              but it isn’t

floating. With silk, the airplanes

                              are attached
to maps. The missiles,

their guiding systems.
                 The newly bereaved

are attached to

becoming bereft. Pressing your
thumb into the wall,

new bombardment. Bright fire,
dangling from your chest like a
charm. Or a hole in your shirt.

is debris not a part of the thing

                            a disarmament
                     growing inside you

             a square within the city

Ian Cappelli