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This Day

Windows gone not dark
but into dust. The voices in fragment

hoarded, replayed, relayed…
This is what circles

like blood through the heart: all motion
denied, the wait, and crumbs

of mortar, hand to hand
to hand, while into eclipsed air,

fiery histories are gathered
and sown, tomorrow's

wheat. One world in four
parts, traded

for another by an other
hollowed to puppet

from skin. This day, scattered to
pages, charred, floating,

shattered to memories.
Will never sleep. Into a shimmer

of missing edges, sun's descent
but hands that touch, then reach…

A Poem by Lisa Bourbeau
September 11, 2001
In Memory

back to Lisa Bourbeau's page

Last updated: January 4, 2005

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