I haven't been back down here since the day.
The farmer's market used to be right there.
The wind is cool and clear and has no smell.
A wall of names -- it's longer than the block.
Green weeds grow stubborn from a slope of rocks.
(A hole. It's just a hole. It's just a hole.)
Some stand and stare, some read the somber signs,
Some hurry past; they've seen it all before.
A father tells the story to his kids;
One wasn't born yet when the towers fell --
(And they were luminous, as tall as gods,
A million windows bright against the sky --)
Why are we here? What have we come to see?
The clouds, the sun behind them, seem surreal.
A workman walks with something in his hand.
They've done so much. There's so much left to do.
The wind picks up. I hold on to my hat.
A plastic bag blows hard against the fence,
And, timid, reaches up to brush my hand.
It's only grit that makes me rub my eyes.
Outside that block, there's so damn little changed.
I haven't been back down here since the day.