Monologue in White Light

                                                  
I started running when the first bomb fell.
Bomb or crash?  Blast, yes.  
When the second plane collided with the skyline,
were you still inside?  Talk to me.  Shock
has turned your eyes to steel your skin to stone
and everywhere a fine grey powder, white light. 

Fine grey powder, thin white light on Vesey,
Broadway, Church.  What kind of darkness, this? 
What kind of light?  Any different than your dark
dark strength and seeming goodness? 
Gone, now, the distant screams and dampened sirens,
just this long white stretch of terrible silence.

Terrible, terrible silence. 
Are there words for this?  Those who say
there are no words deny the spirit, taunt the soul. 
Words live within the flesh—
in voweled O-mouth, cut of lip. 
Do not bury words like bodies under rubble.

Like bodies under rubble, we try to speak. 
I do not know you yet we touch in ways
that make me want to live, like lamplight
falling onto shattered glass.
I'm here in the doorway, give me your hand. 
The smell of iron is my blood. 

Iron, blood, darkness.  If I'm to die,
let me admit into my consciousness
only what I'd take with me with joy.
A lasting image:
leaf, tree, pale green light:
image within image, seed within deep seed.

I imagine we're outside by all these pigeons,
flying steep and long, feathered
down and sunk by soot.  I believe it's safe
to rest now, rest.  I have been running—
through fine grey powder, thin white light—
I started running when the first bomb fell.