Burma, Before the Name Change

This morning it’s
small birds in the grating,
fluttering where you were

before you went.  Along the street,
a stream of dark water
slowly closing itself off––

uneasy cover, a grey
layer of what no one wants to
hold onto, falling
from five floors up.

It drains and collects–
not what might think–
rain, or relief;

just the aftermath of some people on earth
who've been herded here forever.