The Falling Man
Philip Quinn

The metal not quite striking in a spark
The metal not quite right

More like daylight
More like star light rushing into too little space

All that whiteness
And the bodies burnt black

Those seeking a grammar
Flee the smoke and fire
Jump their immaculate beings from the hundredth floor
Pirouetting into a kind of pre-position

To fall freeTo let go absolutely
Upside down in the delivery room
Hands clasped around a jack-knife knee

Slapped awake, born again
Heads up in an argument with the howling wind

Arms out, clothes flapping like wings
Fast forwarding the skin of yesterday
Waiting for that uplift, that god motion

All the lies once believed in

Too soft for this hard world no matter how much