Flying over buildings

makes you think about their insides,
the way being below them
makes them disappear into sky. 

there’s a moment 

between
construction and destruction
where they could be either,
balanced on the threshold
between half-worlds.
they might stay there
forever, or
you never know
how long they have already stood
like that. 

– and they might not be 

as barren as they seem,
I bet there’s a group
of old men in one corner
chewing paan in a circle
passing hours and bets.
or in the cool shade
a pack of dogs
you hear howling those nights
when the thunder comes. 

And this moment 

a businessman dirties his shoes–
cement-dust clouding Italian leather–
stepping out of his car
to inspect if the builders
have managed to build him
his dreams, yet.
–(forty rupees for theirs
at one day’s end) 

they start from 

right where the mountains were beat down,
where trees themselves
can hardly grow.
settlement upon settlement house upon house
grow into glitzy modern towers
(slums sprawl beside, closer to ground) 

what does an earthquake in the Hindukush look like? 

ranges buckling like breaking a back with bricks?
If mountains cannot withstand
earth’s fits of rage
nothing can.
we ought to own up.