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Written  Upon A Visit To Shanksville After 9/11



                                               Citizenry Of The Soul

If I did not believe there was bad in us,
I would have told you so.

If I did not believe there was also good, there
I would have uttered the words.

The instant of man is suspended upon this. It
pivots upon it as if some jewel on a chain, as
if “the belonged.”

We travel down the gravel road together past
The cornfields, and there a peacock stands bewildered,
by a barn, with eyes like a human being.

Up further are three golden feathered roosters with
blood red combs and, a ram with majestic horns.
Still, further is a reindeer, who hides his oddness in
the shadows.

On the ridge above are the horsemen. The horses are
Pale and beautiful and the sky above is “laid
open” and wondrous.

We travel further and, we reach the field of ghosts,
one single flag in the middle of the green grass.

We sit and wonder at mankind, at the struggle that
ensued there above that field to preserve humanity.
We imagine the plummet of the metal hull to the soil.

The purer of soul come everyday and sit and look out
upon the single flag, look upon the single truth.
The mud clings to their feet.

There is no wind above here or below. But, the currents
of air have odd faces and hands, they make unfinished 
turns and curves. They ring bells on plaques.

And, caress chimes, flutter ribbons.
We see the brighter souls.
We know they are this wind we feel brushing our 
arms strong – even in their going.

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