A strong, fortyish fellow (bit of a gym-rat,
in fact) wasted time
saving his work, then walked down thirty floors,
neither having occasion
to help anyone nor be helped. Coughing,
disoriented by
the dust, he made his way slowly
across the plaza. Jumpers
struck near him, then the North Tower fell.
Too preoccupied to remember
wife, kids, or phone, he walked the eighty blocks
to his condo. He wasn’t religious,
and his work had involved
trade, dangers to and costs of,
in many parts of the world, so his focus
had always been on that. What he thought of
(“saw”) during this walk wasn’t
vengeance – that would be
a minor, ongoing part of it –
or a growth in understanding (though
some phrase like that occurred to him);
he understood things. No, what he saw
was a beautiful, transparent,
rotating cloud. In which those who were eaten
knew they were food, and didn’t mind, and loved
the mouth, and were loved in return; so that
whatever hate they had to feel
was a mere seed or skin. He saw crowds
dying in grace. He was among them;
so was everyone he passed,
and he almost embraced and spoke to them.
But the love of his wife
and kids when he reached home
distracted him (he also found he was hungry).
The marriage solidified, work returned,
and in three years he developed asthma.
Faiths bloom every moment
in the shadow of what used to be
the imagination; some few flourish.