Manhattan morning singed,

sincerely mourning twins;

twinging; gingerly lingering

in remembering ringing

smoke and suffering and silence and

death

screaming, suffocated in newly created catacombs.

so today, I combed carefully through the news and somehow come to:

The Poetry of Islamic Terrorists;

It’s good;

beautiful and colorful and moving;

I move too,

confused, consumed; wrought thoughts of

People breathing verse; immersed in the fluorescent pulse and flush of brilliant imagery, free from curling clouds, muddy blood in New York’s thudding skyline; rhymes designed without the grime, crime, time; tomb—tuning out the looming doom, boom; plumes blooming from open wounds.

I wonder if they knew, what they flew into,

through views tattooed on their eyelids;

did they think death poetic?