I dream a pack of boys plays baseball in the road. They bat with an animal femur, and use a blackbird for a ball. All around them, bombs break the roofs of houses, break the cathedral glass and the cloud, break the shawled head of a woman, break the stone road apart, and the carriage horse’s back. A boy swings and hits the ball, which is bleeding now, a mangled black lung wheezing through the air. When it reaches the sky, the blackbird breaks into many blackbirds. The blackbirds descend on the boys. Above, the war drones and swarms. No one can see me here. I hide under a thought of light, not incineration. The thought is a cloak I wake into gently: it is cold in the room, and I am hungry but whole. I open my eyes, climb out of bed. I pull a sweater over my head, fill the kettle. I break the hand, slice the heart—I mean I break the bread, slice the apple—and eat them.