I woke up in a Red Cross
disaster area today.
The sun was still the same,
April breezes mocking this
last day in March. Nearby
the park was becoming alive;
but I was in the specter of
the dead. Seven, eight, maybe
thirteen unlucky dead.
disaster area today.
The sun was still the same,
April breezes mocking this
last day in March. Nearby
the park was becoming alive;
but I was in the specter of
the dead. Seven, eight, maybe
thirteen unlucky dead.
We stood, stared up,
we the witnesses,
staring at each other
to make sure
we were alive.
we the witnesses,
staring at each other
to make sure
we were alive.
I woke up in a Red Cross
disaster area today and
walked to the corner.
To a ruined house full of
smoky ghosts, flaming spirits.
Windowless, roofless,
lifeless, except for a tiny
green plant that seemed to
outlive the blaze.
disaster area today and
walked to the corner.
To a ruined house full of
smoky ghosts, flaming spirits.
Windowless, roofless,
lifeless, except for a tiny
green plant that seemed to
outlive the blaze.
I woke up in a Red Cross
disaster area today. Not
knowing what to do, I made
clumsy bags of soup, noodles
and raisins for those who
leaped out of windows or
clung to burning fire escapes...
crying out in the cold night.
I stood again to watch the
jaws of demolition cranes
snap up debris and limbs.
jaws of demolition cranes
snap up debris and limbs.