I was living in Switzerland on September 11, 2001. The night of the attacks on the World Trade Center, I walked the streets of my little neighborhood in a town called Sorengo. After my walk, I composed this poem.
Where I grew up, in rural Indiana, there is a very large Benedictine monastary, an archabbey, in fact. One of the things they produce on the land there is wine, which is used sacramentally, as well as being sold as part of the abbey’s self-sustaining economy.
One of my attempts at the sonnet form. As far as I’m concerned, poetry doesn’t get more perfect than the sonnet. It’s the perfect blend of displine and abandon. This poem is my imagining of a love scene that might take place inside a Van Gogh painting
A sonnet about the immutability of true love.
The three of them stood, waiting, at dawn;
pilot, cryptographer, guard,
watching cloudy, dull-red fingers extend
The sky is television gray today.
City streets are slick and shiny;
buildings drenched with soot coughed from clouds.
Sometimes the world seems to be so fragile, almost as if it were made of sand.