September 11, 2001

The white-hot sphere of history
tarnishes the cerulean sky
as rigorous dust fills the streets
of the city now strangely foreign,
its pastel morning no longer confident
in the chromatic scale of its own weather
as vigorous citizens become
machinery of a ticking clock.
Bleeding dark roasted air,
blistered bodies and shattered screams,
the avenues of flags and industry
we once admired and favored
now long shadows
of a thousand points of light
on the high wall of a violent smoky sky
as peace fades in a trice
like the first syllable of the wind.