Air View of an Industrial Scene

There is a train at the ramp, unloading people

who stumble from the cars and toward the gate.

The buildings' shadows tilt across the ground

and from each shadow juts a longer one

and from that shadow crawls a shadow of smoke

black as just-plowed earth. Inside the gate

is a small garden and someone on his knees.

Perhaps he's fingering the yellow blooms

to see which ones have set and will soon wither,

clinging to a green tomato as it swells.

The people hold back, but are forced to the open gate,

and when they enter they will see the garden

and some, gardeners themselves, will yearn

to fall to their knees there, untangling vines,

plucking at weeds, cooling their hands in damp earth.

They're going to die soon, a matter of minutes.

Even from our height, we see in the photograph

the shadow of the plane stamped dark and large

on Birkenau, one black wing shading the garden.

We can't tell which are guards, which prisoners.

We're watchers. But if we had bombs we'd drop them.