So here's a 9/11 poem that's stuck in my head for the past year. It thought of it especially when I was at Lake Como in July. It's a good poem.
THE MORNING AMERICA CHANGED
Happened in the afternoon at Villa Serbelloni.
We'd closed up shop on the work for the day
and decided to make the long descent down
the elegant stone switchback path into Bellagio
for coffee and biscotti. It was still Tuesday
and a quarter to three and a good quarter hour
to the exit gate or if you stopped to look
at the snow on the Alps or at "the deepest
lake in all of Italy" or looked both ways
at once - as we say crossing a street - five,
ten minutes longer. This day was longer
because it was especially, if redundantly,
beautiful, with the snow shining and the lake
shining and the big white boats shining
with tourists from Tremezzo and Varenna.
And the herring gulls and swallows at different
layers, shining like mica in the mountain rock.
And the terra cotta tiles of the village roofs
almost shining, almost close enough to touch.
Judith was already in the pasticceria
and I was looking skyward on Via Garibaldi,
the one-way traffic lane circling the town,
when I heard the rain in the distance breaking
and then her voice through the window calling
and then on the tiny screen inside
pillars of fire pouring darkly into clouds.