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 brisť 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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