The Falling Man became a book; brave distillation.
There were other men and women. They held hands,
Leaping and clenching,
Their slow limbs (makeshift bungee-ropes, orange-black, failing)
Most of the dying was less spectacular,
Almost condemned to silence
By siren, heat, debris, pavement screaming.
All of this,
But a solidarity of the last telephoned words of that world,
For those who could still part lips:
I love you.
(Where were you when...?)
I was leaving school.
During English, my brother caught the second hit,
As it happened, that swell of extinction.