From

NINE ELEVEN:
IT’S ALWAYS THE SAME:
NOTHING WILL EVER BE THE SAME
[12 September 2001 to 22 September 2001]

12 September 2001

We’re lucky not to be one of them yet,
the vaporized,
who became
atmospheric,
their fifteen seconds of fame
spread like volcanic dust around the globe,
blocking reflection;
we’ve always been lucky.
Even now we have death
with our pleasures,
death to make the customers
happier to buy great quilts, log hammocks,
polar tech pouches,  joy stick distractions.
But we know
what it means.
“Death plucks my ear
and says, ‘Live,
I am coming,’” Virgil wrote
turning his face from the porno squeals
of the killing fields
of the circus. 
Death, you are here already,
our only way out,
our worst possible fear,
fast or slow, a sudden
closure, cauterizing life,
a long, thoughtful
agony that can’t
be withstood for a second,
ripped from sunshine and our holy toys,
like arms torn off in a combine.

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