The walls of the two towers pick up their plaster and dust sucking upwards into blue. Those who jumped don’t but blow softly up through open windows to sit at their desks intact. Two hundred firemen moonwalk back to their trucks, hang hoses up like warriors’ swords as the running pedestrians stop, turn on their heels and stroll back through park and plaza shops. The melted church rights its ribs, pulls the roof back on like a hat, while fallen spires resurrect from blueprints. Both aircraft tanks siphon back flames of gas and glass mosaic uncoils from debris, folding into steel archways. Two planes resume their flight to Los Angeles and Los Angeles. White exhaust feathers through morning, early and clear. Three thousand busy people loved by others are still right here. Gorgeous, the Indian-summer sky.
Issue: Summer 2010 » Poetry
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