From this next book, a small trail
of poems having to do with 9/11 because what poet
doesn't do some 9/11 poems?
I waited a long time.
I hated to do it.
But on the other hand, just as with cliche--
otherwise, in workshops you're trained to avoid them--
I can't keep away from them, but I have to keep pestering them,
badgering them till I find out why they came to--
I mean, a cliche is where you learn
why a cliche came into being.
There is some truth in there.
You have to restore it to its liveliness or something,
something that made it possible for so many people
to take it for granted and get past the sedated part
back to the provocative part.
And 9/11 is the same way.
It turned-- we made it so fast into a pocket
truth, or a cliche, or a set of assumptions.
And the great astonishment of that moment,
aside from other things was, its irreplicability.
It is the spike par excellence in the EKG.
And to my mind, there were a lot of features of it
that were quite peculiar in retrospect,
although it has sedated itself into a story pretty fast.
Anyway, "Glass House."
This is sort of the augury of the moment.
"Everything obeyed our laws and we just went on self-improving
till a window gave us pause and there, the outside world was
moving.
Five apartment blocks swept by, the trees, and ironwork,
and headstones of the next town's cemetery,
auto lots, golf courses, rest homes, blue green fields,
and perishable vistas, wars had underscored
and red were sweeping past with cloud escapes
just as if the living room were dead.
Which way to look?
Non-negative?
Nonplussed?
Un-killed?
Un-kissed?
Look out, you said.
The sight's on us.
If we don't move, we can't be missed."