Tom Bosworth, Poet

Artist - Caralyn Farrell 




9/11/01

Two steel birds flew low in autumn,
Waiting to plunge into the tall metal.
Open wounds bleed fuel, fire, smoke:

Planes headed East, West, South,
Ladies in blue onboard scan rows,
Aisles cleared, they prepare Flight
Ninety-Three for ascent into the blue.
Every man knows not their fate that
Sets into September’s sky.

Crash waves shake Manhattan,
Ravishing downtown delis and bars.
Ashes sift to the ground, gray
Snowflakes too early for the poor,
Hungry children of men lost in the pile.
East coast reports come first, frantic—
Death tolls climb with every man’s fall.

Into Arlington, the five-sided sanctuary,
Not known for its weakness,
Trembles and shudders yet another blow,
Opens its side: a wound to the world.

The fourth, the final—Flight 77 spins,
Hammers the hard soil and alas the
East coast assault of the air ceases.

Twins sit in Sarasota while George
W. Bush reads, animated, alive,
Imitating the goats and pets, turning
Nice pages of the classroom book.

Tears sting,
Open mouths gape,
Washington screams,
Eagle cries,
Rumsfeld reads,
September 11th.

Caralyn Farrell.  Found objects, approx 10" tall by 8" wide.  Link here to read Caralyn's comments about the work and her process.