Moments dropped

I saw a statue weeping
at the ruins of Penn Plaza.

He fell to his knees.
Cursed fate for his demise.
Evaporated into a
minimalist mist.


Form is an eternity’s final moment,
the hand on the doorknob,
weak legs standing
at the ledge


we are busy destroying beauty,
building filth,
throwing our sons to the dogs.
We lament the tiny letters,
we despair the harsh sentence,
but the gentle Word
is dust.


I walked through the sorry vapor,
and, somehow —

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