In a New York minute.
Under the last quarter moon.
The Grim Reaper wields his trusty sickle.
Symbols clash. And the walls come tumbling down.

Two catastrophic strikes
In syncopated synchrony
And the Music of our Sphere's no longer tuned
To a dual-pronged fork of glass and steel.

Our towering twin erections
Implausibly imploding one by one.
Cataclysmic meltdown into the core of our nation's foundation.
Burnt, Miss Liberty drops her torch.

What palm pilots neglected to note,
Faux pilots do:
Time to break bread with the Devil
And give him his due.

Sudden and unstoppable.
Stopping us all in the moment, momentously stunned.
Rearranging priorities. A day. A week. Maybe forever.
Replaying the scene. Over and over again.

Return. Delete. Return. Delete.
 
The whole shebang instantaneously portentous.
Neologically morphing metaphors bursting with revelatory significance.
Two Angels on the first plane. Jesus flew with the second.
September eleventh forever 9-1-1.

Our own Mt. Fuji mushroomed and leveled.
An apocalyptic pyroclastic paroxysm,
Clouding the distinction between businessman and bowery bum.
Homogenizing Christian, Muslim and Jew.

Consummative consumptive decomposition.
Disintegration. Incineration.
Emblazoned immolations.
Oh, the holy cost!

But, the Quick, and the rest of us graced refuge,
Crawl out (Alive!) through cryptic darkness and debris.
Anointed in ash, we flee, released 
Like moths, towards any light.

Bathed with tears, blind eyes stare back:
A charred and torn sky
Severely framed in crystal clear mourning.
Past and future cemented in the empty space of the present.