The growling lofty tower wall
expands now. The concrete skin
bellies out like the throat of a frog
about to croak. It stretches,
elastically until it bursts.
The frail, flawed tower vomits
its guts out high above us.
In slow-motionness, the broken skin,
like semiliquid chunks,
drifting wood on the serene bay
floats outward then pauses.
It is a murderous still life in air above,
detached but not yet descending.
For me now, time dissembles,
distance deceives. The monster wall,
airier than air itself, dances in broken parts,
waiting a moment. Then, amid the screaming
of those around me who realize
the tower is collapsing, I watch the chunks
gather up and begin to drop toward us.
They come roaring down, airy no more.
They howl toward us like a pack of wild coyotes
on the full moon in search of a soft target.
They land like mortars,
like cannon shots on the ground around me.
The sound echoes from Liberty Street
across the harbor to Liberty Isle,
up numbered avenues and streets
to fields, to ranches and to lands
at the earth’s farthest ends.