I never could go there. On Sullivan
Street, I’d step from our apartment courtyard
each morning, gaze right at WTC’s span
rising to clouds, then push left through the park
to Broadway and work. Then one day I looked
and it was gone, nothing but blue sky, stark
as witches’ eyes, humans stumbling, heads hooked
like Lot’s wife, faces gaping up and back
at the dark unthinkable, pale humans
scurrying from light post to fence, taping
photos of loved ones with pleas and commands
to call this number if you’ve seen them, sting
of breathing death-air’s ashed stench for a month.
All this, so near yet far, seemed way too much.
Roger Armbrust
April 6, 2008
