In a country bled
for a decade, we sip wine
in a room with a warm dessert
homemade pie, custard
with a real vanilla bean

Friends of friends have died
on the frontline
locked up in cellars
buried alive
in their own beds

We mourn them online
startled, surprised
as if shaken out of sleep
by an explosion
around the corner

So alien—this war
secreted and remote
a presence you sense
with your gut and spine
not daring to witness