9 October 2001 #2
Three nights running now and I’ve never dreamed like that before:
twice, strangers falling out of my sight and out of possible survival;
the third, real rain on the roof, in anxious imagination,
was distant artillery, and waking in a strange room.
Nearly a month since the towers burned, and
they’re returning fire and bread from the sky.
In between moments of sugary jazz, selling us furniture, we watch
live footage of the war zone.