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Like warm knives into towers of butter
two tablespoons from the top, the jets
on that September morning whose hijacked
courses noosed New York's harbor, the jets
disappeared into buildings and the future
in flames burst through the other side
like bad magic, the one trick no one wanted
to witness. "This is not possible," we said
as the fireball bounced into heaven, leaving
the disaster sagging on the asphalt like]
fireworks smuggled to Michigan from
Indiana. On our cake, gag candles kept
smoldering, no moatter how many times
we tried to put the television out.
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