that some skirmish wracked this city, or that wars manifested repressed desire, that citizens were punished for their decadence. For their. The screech of children or sea gulls. ("CNN Reports.") Gypsies, carts and some goats. Chalk dust hangs ominous in the stilled air. Find it resting yellowed on gutted classics shelves. (The woman, whose face I no longer remembered; we unearthed another layer of the city.) You remember how it was looking down at the ruins that first time, together? I laughed. I walked toward that hilltop to look out over the site again, felt restless, anxious. Cramped, his hands scratched at the earth. A long low line of cars barely moving along. This -- where the page was ripped away in the original; looking closely we could tell where. Nothing, for third day in a row. Cosmic dust sifting down from sky. Sun brightens mountains up slow as. First derivative of lust; this acquisitive urge, moving through the day. A perfect parabola. Her portrait seemed to have been put up everywhere. Concussions of mortar fire close. They put together a scale model of the city. Lyric some wandering tune, this your ballad of sorts, and he her balladeer? Line up your givens. Whispers lost in the din. Clever ploy the hoarse. They'll never know the true nature until it is too late. A no-win dance; (the dirt on my hands) imagined the woman again, half-turning in the dusk, arm wrapped across her breasts, wrinkling the front of her dress, so serious. In the twilight came some fainter sound, some sign. Aha. But closure?