I don't write poetry very often, and almost never show it to other people, but I have nothing else to offer in memoriam this year. I wrote this sitting in a dark stairwell outside my dorm, the night of 9/11/01.
Beneath clear skies, sharp stars and bright,
A moving pillar shrouds the night,
Marking with insubstantial stone
The place where many died alone.
Silent streets in the city below
Argue the depth of a country's woe;
And tired faces, black with ash,
Top weary bodies still sifting past
Identities of death and life
That hide within this mound of strife.
God's tears are in the streets of Manhatten.