Entry tags:
Yesterday I went
somewhere I should have gone much sooner.
This is what I wrote there, almost unedited.
Ground Zero, October 15, 2003
I haven't been back down here since the day.
The farmer's market used to be right there.
The wind is cool and clear and has no smell.
A wall of names -- it's longer than the block.
Green weeds grow stubborn from a slope of rocks.
(A hole. It's just a hole. It's just a hole.)
Some stand and stare, some read the somber signs,
Some hurry past; they've seen it all before.
A father tells the story to his kids;
One wasn't born yet when the towers fell --
(And they were luminous, as tall as gods,
A million windows bright against the sky --)
Why are we here? What have we come to see?
The clouds, the sun behind them, seem surreal.
A workman walks with something in his hand.
They've done so much. There's so much left to do.
The wind picks up. I hold on to my hat.
A plastic bag blows hard against the fence,
And, timid, reaches up to brush my hand.
It's only grit that makes me rub my eyes.
Outside that block, there's so damn little changed.
I haven't been back down here since the day.
This is what I wrote there, almost unedited.
Ground Zero, October 15, 2003
I haven't been back down here since the day.
The farmer's market used to be right there.
The wind is cool and clear and has no smell.
A wall of names -- it's longer than the block.
Green weeds grow stubborn from a slope of rocks.
(A hole. It's just a hole. It's just a hole.)
Some stand and stare, some read the somber signs,
Some hurry past; they've seen it all before.
A father tells the story to his kids;
One wasn't born yet when the towers fell --
(And they were luminous, as tall as gods,
A million windows bright against the sky --)
Why are we here? What have we come to see?
The clouds, the sun behind them, seem surreal.
A workman walks with something in his hand.
They've done so much. There's so much left to do.
The wind picks up. I hold on to my hat.
A plastic bag blows hard against the fence,
And, timid, reaches up to brush my hand.
It's only grit that makes me rub my eyes.
Outside that block, there's so damn little changed.
I haven't been back down here since the day.

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--Ember--
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I've been *by* Ground Zero but not *to* it, if you know what I mean. I haven't peeped into the Big Hole. Thanks for your perspective on it.
Last night I was at Union Square aound sunset, looking south--the sky down there looked peaceful with the feathery sort of clouds. Anyway, this odd thought flashed through my head: it's like they were never there at all. But of course it's not like the scar is gone or I've forgotten, because every time I look at that patch of sky I think they used to be there. But this was the first time I had a false sense that there was nothing missing, which I found comforting but strange
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I'm sitting here just staring at that sentence.
I can't imagine that it's been that long.
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I kept noticing babies, and thinking that.
well done