In the ruins I search for you—
the other person you were.
Not the man in a black coat
with silver dollars in its lining.

Not the one who said Come
I won’t hurt you
I have lollipops swirled with color
I have paper birds that fly,

not the man who ate children
spread them with lime
not the one on the front page
or any page at all.

I find small bits of verse
that have your name on them,

I find the box of your pain
before its lid is shut,
I find your startled eyes.