Sometimes I sit on the Promenade in Brooklyn Heights,
close my eyes, and remember the way the Manhattan
skyline used to look. But the Towers, 2 ancient centurions,
are gone forever.

I still can’t return to the sacred place where they stood, for
my soul’s on fire, burning with trauma. Yet each morning,
in the private landscape of my psyche, the Towers rise again,
like the phoenix, like us.