The Jumpers
From Notes from September 11, page 19
Petaluma, 2004
ISBN 1-931002-34-7
$5
how finally borne by air not one little bit
how not like men but like rock, anvil, fridges
dashing, done —
the noise they make: nothing. The perch of our not saying
on rooftops watch the white fluttering in the tall towers
and of what they bore of the thing behind that walked in the
fire
that wanted them, and they from his awful black breath
all alone
then: slap like bed against wall, crack of baseball bat
slide of lock, crick of neck
stump dis-timbered, plops in a lake
thuds wet as dumpsters
man looking up and he is shattered
by the woman flying to him and him only
firefighters put their hands to ears
they shout stopitstopitstopit
and one, becoming human, crawls under a car
© Christopher Ketcham, 2004
Here's the link (http://www.wordrunner.com/chapbook/authors/ketcham.htm) to the poem. Such horrific beauty. Like a Goya.