There is an equation for this:
an imbalance of temperature
added to wind shear
equalling an F5 swath of correction
one mile wide. For us,
it’s personal, raising brick
of what used to be a city
to find some(one) any(thing) living
underneath walls, below floors
that were ceilings; roofs
torn open like sardine tins, keyless.
We put up signs with street names
so we can learn where our houses were.
We learn the sky is sometimes hungry.
We hug our children. If we can.
After we count the bones,
after we tell the ashes
we remember a random sparing
of an indifferent giant
which is less mercy
and more chance, impersonal scythe
to life with a face on it,
pick for logic in a rubble
of computer monitors and picture frames,
but that’s gone missing too.
Easier to tally what’s lost
than find meaning in what’s left.