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Pieces (poem)

By Woody Powell

They do not fly very high,
no need, there is nothing to bring them down.
They float, sighing,
so benign, not a menace until
they drop their burden,
not carelessly because it became too heavy,
but with deadly deliberation upon
tents, hospitals, schools, homes, homes, homes.
Black smoke leaps violently
sundering a serene sky,
rubble falls, hammering the ground
in a punishing cascade
followed by a much softer rain
of pieces of people.

—Woody Powell
Korea vet