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The Sky, its Gods, and Their Story
This man’s eyes are chalked over, yet he leaves behind a trail of tears
As we walk the most gumless streets in all of New York, his furrowed eyes speak for his mouth
which won’t let go
New construction busily occupies the single grave of two gods
We walk around them looking up. I expect a long lost voice to sound from the sky and give me an answer as to “why I walked for three and a half hours to this place where no one seems to notice my suddenly stricken soul”
Maybe I should put my ear to the gutter instead… where the ashes of the innocent were washed away during cleanup
This place makes me want to understand death instead of rationalizing it
The empty space now filled with cranes and fences and 2 am security guards is engulfed by the surrounding buildings which wear remnants of dust upon their remaining slabs.
We sit on a bench that faces the emptied empty as if to say “look now” “see the new”
And I do… but the half built Freedom Tower only baffles and worries me
When someone dies, do we replace them?
When a volcano erupts, do we refill and recap it?
So why now this new tower in old wind?
What is its voice going to be?
Will it be a god as well?
Will the dead begin their jobs again inside of it?
Wondering why they had a 14 year vacation
We come upon a railing a block away; the smallest corner harboring hardened fast dust
I run my finger over it
I feel I should have a memorial for it and gaze long upon it as I would a loved one at a funeral
I tell the man “I know I’m ten years too late and from a far-away place, but these people are still my people
After all… on the morning of September 11th I dreamt about it
The voices of the fallen told me of their loss long before the T.V. did
They spoke to me then and they speak to me now
Through the scared eyes of city towers, through the dust on the railing, and through you”
“I hear you my friends… I hear you”
