03 September 2011


the jars are lined up on his windowsill,
swelling, so, with her tears, from that first
morning, so blue-skied we did not think
of the crowds, ash-white, ghostlike, streaming

through the streets as alarums wailed and we all
--held our breath--these deaths, so unlike
any others, graved upon our minds, the shapes,
too, of their forms, falling from the sky,

angels touching earth as cats fought over
scraps in an alley and the accordion pleats
of her greywool skirt fell open to reveal...what...she
will not tell--the tolling of the bells takes

her mind to another place, that field of blue
and black, the pipes cry, over and again the
flags unfurl, and the tears that would
fill an ocean, an ocean, wet her hands

once again, the floor unsteady beneath her
feet, fingers trembling to their tips, and
she, undone entirely, unmoored, floats
from the ninety-seventh floor to rest upon a

common curb, sepulchral white, smoke-
dusted, stunned, walking away, away, forever
away--and still, there. His hands thread
through her hair still, she feels it so.

1 comment:

Vîncenţiu Paşsaro Edvărdt Colosimo-Mîroiu said...

I certainly do fancy your writing.