Finally, after all these years, I was able to write a 9/11 poem.
The tower’s gray and white stripes
like a corduroy curtain behind him, the man,
dark-skinned, wearing a pale sports coat
& black slacks, isn’t falling. I’ve superglued
the photo upside-down to the inside
of my closet door. He isn’t falling, arms rigid,
trapping the billowing skirts of his jacket
against his sides, one leg lifted. He’s anyone
I can imagine. The father of many girls.
An expert on the language of Greenland,
which has no expletives. A novice stepdancer
practicing his routine. Sometimes, when
no one’s around, I open the closet door
& say, “Good morning, Dancing Man.”
新浪微博
QQ空间
人人网
腾讯微博
Facebook
Google+
Plurk
Twitter
Line