Should stolen silver wings make soft
cutting of glass and steel...
Should thumbs of clouds smudged red and gold
stop watchful gulls mid-dial...
Should broad-shouldered blue shed brave skin,
then feverish crumple...
Should there ever be a morning
when grey snow falls on warm
September sidewalks, and brings us
no damp or cool
but the burning
silence of five thousand throats... how
could I write that canvas?
This is a poem I'm working on as a companion piece to a painting by my friend George Kokines, which we hope will get exhibited as part of an installation this September 11.