A Dream in Wartime

Nothing is plumb
but the child
who, dangling, climbs
into the well

to patch the cracked,
shifted, settled
circle of cut,
fitted stones,

and even while random
blasts overhead
punch lung, gut,
drum marrow,

set off tremors
in every limb,
light the optic
nerve like a fuse,

stun the inner
ear’s subtleties,
panic heartbeat
to ragged thread,

still waits to be
hauled up by those
who refuse to
let go of the rope.