after W.H. Auden Staring up from a field in Pakistan, your eyes like the eyes of any child. Your face enlarged on a poster that can be seen from the edges of the human inhabitable zone on this lucky earth; and viewed again on our screens while eating or opening a window, or just walking dully along. Drones that hover their targets don’t see. I sit outside a café at an unsteady table on an uneven path, where another child, lifted high on shoulders, waves a tiny hand. There’s a seamless sky behind the weight of cherry blossom; and I’m unsure whether to share with friends the image of you—as pixels to the wind—or to simply forget and build my delicate home the way I’d like it to be.