Peter Bollington writes

the cupboard door muttered

the cupboard door muttered
a tiny wind in silent morning

nothing from across the way

with children asleep

and wounded

buildings in fallen leavings

crashed

the white dust

their parents may or may not

lie with them

resting and still

and for once just quiet

no human voices roaring

no rip and screaming

a fly studious on the window

crawling

the only witness