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9/11

9/11 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 towards a void of dark-goggled men shooting sparks at steel, towards the solemn white-gloved triangulation of flags. Those rising smokes begot October. Autumnal trees menstrually cast leaves yellow with remembering, pressed to a clot of dampness. Today there is a low tide pause. In the sink, last night's rice is dying in a bowl. A paint-scraped dinghy is turned over, on the sand, closed. I have learned this lesson before. It's not that the wind is cold or the morning dreary. It's that your heart is broken. http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png JAMA American Medical Association

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...
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Publisher
American Medical Association
Copyright
Copyright © 2002 American Medical Association. All Rights Reserved.
ISSN
0098-7484
eISSN
1538-3598
DOI
10.1001/jama.288.5.549
Publisher site
See Article on Publisher Site

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 towards a void of dark-goggled men shooting sparks at steel, towards the solemn white-gloved triangulation of flags. Those rising smokes begot October. Autumnal trees menstrually cast leaves yellow with remembering, pressed to a clot of dampness. Today there is a low tide pause. In the sink, last night's rice is dying in a bowl. A paint-scraped dinghy is turned over, on the sand, closed. I have learned this lesson before. It's not that the wind is cold or the morning dreary. It's that your heart is broken.

Journal

JAMAAmerican Medical Association

Published: Aug 7, 2002

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