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
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Last
updated:
January 4, 2005
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