Running so slow they become statues
People in blithe September morning

While silhouettes and shadows scatter across the ground
Like beads of spilt mercury
One spreads his wings, takes flight
Angel of the 110^th floor

Cries we can’t hear. Silenced
by the distant thunder of cascading paper, plastic
pens, paper clips and office files

Comets tailed with ashes of the dying
Some spiraling in contrails to heaven
falling back home to some shadowed valley,
lonely street;  into the eyelashes of the living.

Piercing towers of the cerulean sky,
Side split.
Our beautiful, uniform sky forever changed
Twisted in memory’s prison