SEPTEMBER TWELFTH, 2001
Two caught on film who hurtle
from the eighty-second floor,
choosing between a fireball
and to jump holding hands
aren’t us. I wake beside you,
stretch, scratch, taste the air,
the incredible joy of coffee
and the morning light.
Alive, we open eyelids
on our pitiful share of time,
we bubbles rising and bursting
in a boiling pot.
— X.J.Kennedy
A FLAME
God, give us a long winter
and quiet music,
and patient mouths,
and a little pride—
before our age ends.
Give us astonishment
and a flame,
high,
bright.
~ Adam Zagajewski
Love/Life Poems
