2 poems from September 11, 2001

9/11

and now, a second and improbable plane,

a blip on FAA radar, United Flight 175,

approaches and then plunges into the south tower

of the World Trade Center, igniting into orange and red flames

while bodies fall and then tumble like stunt doubles

into the empty but televised air.

THE MISSING

An egret whirls into the wind,

and then turns and folds in upon itself and lands

beneath a cloud of water;

while in the distance,

airplanes at the edge of thunder

murmur and echo

like the thin mirrors of the ego,

glittering and lost, and I shudder

in the dark and consider

the dead (and all of their voices),

an unwavering remembrance,

a delicate descent.