Above the Smoke

The pages of my past are thick with weather.
I don’t know what was done to hurt my mind,
but now that we’re imprisoned here together,
remind me what we gain by staying blind.

I’ve had to do my breathing in a bubble
and scan for messages through miles of haze.
I scarcely hoped to find you in the rubble,
to guide you to the center of the maze

where the exit door still clearly stands,
a monument to our excessive hope
that we could leave the work of our own hands
in flames—and live in peace above the smoke.

Alan Graham