Tuesday, September 11, 2007

Black Winds

There is no tower left,
only scattered rubble,
out of a splendor-filled city --
Late and dark and chill
are the black winds
that crash over heaped shards
evoking distorted echoes,
flat and twisted and broken,
of the singing stones, the beautiful
rounded chimes.
The night is indifferent.
Hours drip like heavy tears.
Every bridge uncouples.

"Late, late, late," drones in the marrow.
Only the brain-numbed hope
stands raggedly, and waits --
There is nothing to be done.
Present dies into past,
relentlessly the future buckles
all that was strong and good.
Yowling, now, the wind
enters the last thin chink,
ravishing, uncaring, the innocent.


This poem was written thirty years before the September 11, 2001 destruction of the World Trade Center.