9/11
Abstract
September of stone. That day everyone, in some way, wrote a poem. That day needed words the way creatures and crops need fields. For whenever there are fields, something is free. Of all the few reasons for gladness, the requiem's song within each, helped us visit a ground personal, marking our own terrorists from the lineup and seek them out, in caves distant as marrow. With time though, rhetoric luffed. Words split like serpent's tongue, going one way towards grace, the other...