Maybe Our River

It must have been
the blood making
me remember.

The ones who
died.  The ones
not yet born.  Watching
the watchtower fall.

Bodies flying without wings.

I remembered all
the dreams crouching
for life that day.
People calling out
windows for rescue
& forgiveness.

I watched the crumbling rise.

How pieces of stone
trap a story inside
homes made for living.

Today we collect those dreams
one by one between
what may be remembered
& what will be
forgotten.  In small
pieces of broken stone.

In scraps of memos
& torn metal.  A
left foot.  A right hand.

See how pain can hide.

How dreams once knew
but now forget to find
the difference between
our departure & arrival.
What is known & unknown.

How voices collect the earth on falling.