Abandoned buildings had ancestors
that went up in flames. Gone are the cities
founded by a wolf and her two twins, and
the home made out of twigs was blown away
by a wolf’s twin lungs, like dandelion seeds.
Buildings have nothing to reminisce about
but the whistling of bricklayers, way before
they were stuffed with furniture
and trophies, or wolves laid down
their radioactive fur
on deserted living rooms.
Even after decades of being orphans,
they never long for us,
in the absence of wolves, they wish
for the blessing of collapsing.
