—SO, COME HOME TO ME NOW, IT WON’T MATTER ANYHOW

 

 

Falling Man

 

I have not forgotten you, flying upside down, amused or bemused I’m unsure, your left leg cocked, arms at your side, outside the striated face of the North Tower as the lid of the building smoldered from plane wreckage, while below, sirens blared uselessly, everyone terrified, thinking Orson Wells, thinking hoax, thinking End Times, the streets horrified, too, trying to gather up their asphalt skirts to catch you before it was too late and you became #2,997, another number that wasn’t a number at all.