Philip Martin

September Morning, 2001 

Concussed alive,
born into the wind and smoke
the howl, the oil, the cooking heat
his memory wiped
his history ripped away and
a wheeling world at his wing-tipped feet 

Nameless, he watched
others drop like human tears
into a sea of newsreel gray
how he knew
he could not fly
he really couldn’t say 

Amnesia’s a blessing,
the sweetest parting gift —
grief-shot he stepped into the void
and felt the horror lift

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