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| Day Mark Lee Briccetti |
During the evacuation I walked up the thirty-six floors in a darkness so utter the world no longer existed. Voices, slammed firedoors, above and below, fear, the smell of burning fuel. Then, in the dusty air of my savagely bright apartment I hovered over the body I'd lived in. Fire-glass particles sparkled on the school roof and the dazzle of charred steelwork was a kind of blindness. Triage stations, refrigerator lockers sound finished. Rescuers and stunned residents under the dusty trees remembered they were dust. There is a blister on my mind. I agree to that. Moment as the plane, four blocks away, turned, angling inand I knew they would be dead but I would live. And so it is. Time, a membrane we both slipped through, into the next moment when I could scream. Personality swallowed itself to a nerve: live. I live above the pit, the river a gorgeous frame for abundant new morning light. |
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