This is a poem that took shape while watching the rioting across the country and down here in Raleigh a few years back. It made me think of how these sorts of moments, like the Russian Revolution and the French Revolution, among many others, were commandeered by iconoclasts who tore down the world and cast those that came before adrift in the wreckage, wandering with their baggage and memories. Every monument stands on the ruins of one that came before, in many ways, and every new building stands on the ruins of what came before. And the people who lived in those lost worlds were just as valid as those that swept them away. Part of this was inspired by Pasternak's imagery in Doctor Zhivago. estory

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