The storm is still there
moldy white around the holes
of the filigree that was
once a powerful building

deeply weathered and pulverised
with hard droppings and kapok
in the corner, a dead fly

Shards tinkle under
my shoes, the remains
sloshing rhythmically away
from my footsteps

Everything falls prey
to the daily hunger
of the light, the sun

which smears honey
on the old stones
and fertilizes the cracks
sends spiders, makes birds

whistle springs
until what was there
is invisible