for Syria and Ukraine 

I was dreaming its surface with my thumb  

Flying along carving a small wake, 

A river and a fish.  

That dream—but when I woke 

Heard the noisy street. 

What am I doing, I thought? 

Living in a story about myself, 

Like an autodidact awake to some possibilities. 

I hear nothing, so I don’t speak, 

Except inside the airy chamber. 

This is what keeps me inside the story, 

That and the long road  

I will leave. I wove paints,  

Words into patterns. 

They carry sound, not being. 

The carry bodies 

I have laid out  

Next to a bombed river, 

A drainage ditch—they were not sketched there. 

What in the name of one god or another  

Are we doing with destruction, its obscene thunder   

And its silence? I have this art, 

Which is a silent door, a gashed voice inside 

My head, some marooned wishes 

Asking the world for its name. 

Scott Minar
Professor Emeritus of English
Ohio University Lancaster
1570 Granville Pike
Lancaster, OH  43130