We discuss in whispers how to do it,
standing up or lying down or front to back,

but by the time we decide,
the workers have returned from break

and are attacking the building
with sledgehammers and crowbars.

Maybe tomorrow, she says, getting out of bed.
I can barely hear her. Chunks of masonry

are crashing from a great height to the street.
Later on the news, there’ll be reports

of blinding dust clouds, couples looking up
just before being crushed and buried,

an infant found crawling about the rubble
in the elaborate harness of a seeing-eye dog.


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