The Falling Man by Antony Owen

on nine twelve they spoke of the falling man
imagine developing his shape from water
gradually appearing in bleak suspension
leave him to dry into more than a shape
watch black grains form into her son
I heard the sky was perfect blue.

On nine thirteen you said that they looked like rain
maybe some were whole new worlds
white cotton should not turn scarlet
it should not lay by twisted steel
a mother is nationless in birth
her children belong to life
I heard he was born
perfect then

they erased him.


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