I would like to tell the boy to look us in the eye, the cameraman
can do nothing with this angle, that what’s left is just more 
of the rubble of home he’s sitting on like the king

of a demolished kingdom. Around him, sheets of metal coil
under the objects they once sheltered: desk legs, window frames,
still half-open, and the innards of concrete, steel nets poking

from the sand, catching only wind. His knuckles rest
between mouth and nose in a classic thinker’s pose,
while the other hand is poised on his hip, fingers bent back