• Books & the Arts
• April 18, 2002

The Enemy

The Enemy

The buildings’ wounds are what I can’t forget;
though nothing could absorb my sense of loss,
I stared into their blackness, what was not

supposed to be there, billowing of soot
and ragged maw of splintered steel, glass.
The buildings’ wounds are what I can’t forget,

the people dropping past them, fleeting spots
approaching death as if concerned with grace.
I stared into the blackness, what was not

inhuman, since by men’s hands they were wrought;
reflected on the TV’s screen, my face
upon the building’s wounds. I can’t forget

this rage, I don’t know what to do with it–
it’s in my nightmares, towers, plumes of dust,
a staring in the blackness. What was not

conceivable is now our every thought:
We fear the enemy is all of us.
The buildings’ wounds are what I can’t forget.
I stared into their blackness, what was not.