Hours After The Attack On The World Trade Center
Weeks ago, I fell in love with that bright city.
I took no photographs, surprised by how
diminutive stood Liberty, the pity
I had so long envisioned on her brow.
The streets of low Manhattan cleanly raced
along the base of building fronts which bore
toward the clouds -- a pale, calm canyon's face
around the Towers, built when I was four.
I've cried this morning to a liquid shred
to see one hour's potency, to see
the desperate faces of the knowing dead
choosing to die in flight instead of heat.
Three black birds hurried skyward once the last
abomination pierced the southern tower,
as if, like mine, their courses had been cast
to seek the Kingdom, glory, and the power
and brood upon the first great desecration.
"Then there was war in Heaven," Saint John wrote.
The fire which scarred that moment of our nation
was nothing less than falling rebel host.
In Ramah
In Moscow, red and yellow blooms were laid
before our nation's embassy. The bells
of Notre Dame rang out. An esplanade
of candles flared for us in Kosovo.
The Muslims in Jerusalem rejoiced
to witness Allah slay the infidels,
while silence from the free and many-voiced
in South Korea recognized our slain.
St. Paul's was filled to bursting, and its Queen
wore black, but in New York, the dimming skyline
remains a seared and brokenhearted scene
whose towering Twins we'll never glimpse again.
September 11, 2001
How can I ever put those scenes to bed --
the bodies tumbling from the upper floors,
imaginings of all the private wars
which must have marked the dying of the dead?
How can I fail to weep till I am dust,
remembering the ashen forms that filled
those streets, and must I love the ones who killed?
The answers come, "You cannot," and "You must."
2007-09-13
09:59:05
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5 answers
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