Poem: Form filling in a dead city

The Historian sits at the foot of
a staircase. On the form where
his name must fit into very small,
impossible little boxes, in block
letters – his pencil draws little
earthen lamps.

In the event of the return, he
must brace himself for the
death of his city. Rocks, eaten
walls, dogs sit quiet with that
which remains – the memory of
a memory.