Whispers of grey synthesize and lanterns disentangle; the light forms and loses disperate people. 

They looked like bees, moving in and out; furraging futile in a bedrock and fax paper porridge.

The floor - where was the floor? Ten thousand hands, athritis and athrimatic , cup the sound of sirens.

When lines were cut, the paper towered down, and for all of you there -we shaped a parachute.

The sky peeked through our fingers, burnt eyelash and itch -a rapid paper boy, and the backs of our throats, exhausted.

Words were unemployed, and all we could cry was “Water?”

Water for the static, heaped under paper cuts, the radio that fainted,

and the paramedic.

Your voice, a word , where the steel skims the horizon harsh -

 a medic for a war; rising from the cinders, a paper dove.