The room has been turned inside out
As if all set for a well-made play.
But this is a scene from Amatrice,
Venerable town unmade into rivers of rubble.
Only a handful of party animals
Heard the ‘evil murmur of moving walls’.
Most residents were asleep in their beds
Until the beds rose up and cast them out into chaos.
Things we had thought…that ought to stay
Put, striking out on their own behalf
Implacable as toys turning murderous at midnight.
But must we resort to fables and nursery tales?
Or shall I compare thee to the movement of migrants,
Relentless as dust, or the Euro-Border-Crats
Careless of casualties, dismissing fatalities,
Tossing back refugees like so many sticks of furniture?