THE ALMOST
(After September 11)

The market has its backbone, they said,
two mastheads riding every storm,

Strongmen in the ocean of concrete fingers,
around these empty spaces of silence stored;

With many ants emptying days into keyboards,
the thinness of screens, carpel tunnels

And weight of numbers in their cabins,
men behind grinning glasses and

Ties a-live, smoke unspooled from nostrils,
deadlines and profits make good company.

What unites them will wash them away,
when hate is no more a name out of sight.

No matter even if like two drunken soldiers
they fall to their knees

Disappearing into the depths of themselves
and the earth mops up their billion breaths,

While we stand with the weights of expression sprawling
heavy over our tongues, proper nouns scorching our eyes

The almost: silence to us, will no more be a pledge
all goodness dusted away, but love still breathes.