We marked four winds those days by smoke,
The smoke across East River and New York Harbor, smoke first black, then white,
Carried east across Brooklyn, then south over Staten Island,
Out over the Narrows, down the shore, up Long Island, out to sea,
Carried north over Central Park, over Harlem, Washington Heights,
Over and into the Bronx, over and into Connecticut beyond,
Carried west, raking up, then down New Jersey Palisades, Fort Lee to Bayonne.

Over all it was blown, a marvel, a compass in the sky.
We saw it from a hill in Green-Wood, by Tiffany’s tomb,
Acorns, catkins, catalpa fruit littering the manicured grass,
Along with charred memos, letters, and newsprint
All covered, all covered with thankless ash —

In this ash, ashes, the ordinary become SOS, the truth of what was
And what is.

Upon the ashes of that work
Is our work —
Begun when theirs ended —
In smoke and ash,

Twisted steel, exploded glass,
When our towers, one after the other,
Shuddered and collapsed,
Exhausted.