September 11, 2001

September 11, 2001

The streets in Brooklyn Heights are named for fruit
Cranberry, Orange and Pineapple
So in near fall when air made crisp and rare
By the uneasy coming together
Of the Hudson and East River
And the sheer audacity of the Manhattan skyline
You can almost believe this abundant
Harvest will last forever in the New Netherlands
The land of Puer Aeternus
And hysterical celebrity
Until the Titans struck
Murdering the dream
But not the harvest planted in stone
Monuments and bitter steel
Portraits of the virginal dead
Nailed to the heart of the city
Stories spilling like tumbleweed
 From ashen travelers forever anointed
With the Last Rites. After the blast, heat
And radiation follow and then the gifts of God
Everywhere, small altars stinking of incense
Candles flickering like rainbow tongues
Flowers that last long enough for the next rain
Messages that cry for mercy and justice
A wicked silence that accompanies the dead as
Hermes and his legions move back and forth
Between both worlds from the inferno
Into the light hand-carrying bits of us
Murdered in public and consecrated in holy pain
That we too must carry and plant again in every
Corner of this shattered place
And in every seam of our broken hearts.