Locked Spirits of 9.11.01 by Nanette Rayman

They stand at the edges of windows and seem to disintegrate— angels stripped of resonance, stripped of the chance of lucida, forsaken and trapped and ambushed and gulled at bay. Their integrity is the eponym of the top of the sky—there is a fierce sound of light in their bodies—falling they know—thou shalt not bear a sin on someone’s account— and they are—in locked reality—unbearably bearing a fall in brisé voie full of light, full of the might that is padlocked in ubiety all—elucidations—lonely stars shining in pas de deux grande on constellations of liberty to the last shutter-snapped second.

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