George Witte


No photograph records
that day’s unmaking roar.

Things ripped from skins,
words from definitions.

Letters distilled until

whistles, clicks, thrummed diphthongs
an underwater song

too deep for human ears.
We wept, or cursed in fear,

beseeched unanswered phones
Please God, alone,

walked home in single file.
The broken and defiled

crept close within our space,
affording grace

we disregarded, lost:
two beams a blackened cross,

missing person fliers,
watch warped by fire.

No explanation why;
the perfect alibi

your word, no witnesses.
You saw this coming, yes?

Our brazen structures razed,
immense collapse the praise

you craved, that roar’s
descending, perfect chord.

Submitted: Friday, March 27, 2015

Form: Couplet

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