Maybe I had the wrong idea
that there would be a
sculpture of golden bronze
twisting upward into the open sky,
a place where maybe the soul might fly,
or an enormous gilded wing,
or an archer and an arrow,fixed
like a starry constellation,
high over Manhattan.
But whatever I imagined
I was wrong, shards of
rusted steel and broken concrete
littered the ground like
tombstones in a ghost town.
Whatever I imagined collapsed
like a blazing tower
into a dust cloud
of rock and ash...
And now, the silence of
rushing water over the edges
of a titanic dark well,
an immense depression of
polished stone, a black
hole consuming everything
in its presence, descending
into a wormhole where
nothing exists except
the souls who died there,
still clamoring to
go home.
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