Children who see repeated images of the World Trade Center falling may believe that they are seeing new destruction each time. --a child psychologist on NPR

The children, as usual, are right.
The towers fell once for the dead.
For us, the towers keep falling
and falling.

Each time we see the towers fall
for the first time.
Each time the towers fall
further. Day by day
we descend with them.

The first day we couldn’t leave the spectacular
ball of fire; when we turned our eyes away
the flames burst out on the walls of our homes.

The second day we were inside the burning
building. We were running; there was running.
We couldn’t look anyone in the face.
                                                      At the window,
our imaginations faltered.

The third day we started to lose track
within the black oily smoke. We began to hear
moans, like in an old ship caught in fog.

Then silence grew over our ears,
and we splintered and lost each other.

Now you are six floors underground.

Piles of the dead loom and threaten
to engulf you, stumbling in a swamp of body
parts and debris and filth.

You find one of the killers.

Howl at him; damn him; spit in his face, kick him, do things
you didn’t know you could think of. And then, because you are trapped and weakening and he is not human, try to eat him.
Each taste of his blood will make you hungrier,
Each swallow will carve out a bigger hollow.

You are in an empty basement—the dead are not there,
the killers are not there.
To gain the strength to climb out,
you will have to eat the only thing left:
your anger.

It will taste like tears.

Now you will see the janitor two months shy of retirement
who took frequent, long smoke breaks. Now you will close
the eyes of the mother of two whose idea might have changed the world. Look, the bike messenger lies across the vice president of something.
The young firefighter lies under the beam. His boots are new.

Who will pay for them? No one can pay. Each
was beyond price.

Climb up and meet the rescuers,
Long years of nightmares already in their faces.

Pass through the sleep-walking crowds,
their faces streaming by like leaves.

Stop at the corner and wonder
where all the traffic is going,
where home is.

Lean your head against the fluttering lamppost
adorned with missed faces
flickering like flames in the wind.

Auden said we must love one another or die.
We must love one another and
die, and love one another
and die and love
one another.

                       And
don’t go home; don’t disappear into traffic.
Stay on the corner long after the faces have fluttered away.
Reach out to each person that passes and tell them:
To kill one person is to kill the whole world.
To save one life is to save the whole world.
To spare one life is to spare the world.