How did it end? What dealt the fatal blow?
Did it burn like a house with a faulty kitchen stove?
If we’d sifted the ashes, would we have found a clue?
No ashes now, just the syllables of doves.

Were there warning signs? Did they send a boy for water?
Not a soul is left to ask; everyone’s gone.
And now that it’s over, how seems not to matter.
The doves remain, ash-humble in the sun.

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Peter Vertacnik’s writing has appeared recently in 32 Poems, The Hopkins Review, Literary Matters, and THINK. He currently lives in Florida.



This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 41 Number 2, on page 37
Copyright © 2023 The New Criterion | www.newcriterion.com
https://newcriterion.com/issues/2022/10/late-inquiry

Topics: Poetry

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