The Poppy Fields of Afghanistan

appear overnight in the white gauze
soaking up her wound.
The following morning they wheel in a photograph:
an aerial view of a recent tributary
of the Amazon River, claiming its knotted way
across the ground—it is, they say,
the problem, this is what they need to divert.
All night I’ve been awake at her side
with the dust of the fallen Babylon
a lament in my throat, and a vision
of meadows of Alpine flowers—as neat
and smooth as lavender velour—for a contrast.
Even here. Yes even
in this room so far removed from the world.