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I want to believe it's the same as it was before,
even though I hated it before.
I hated the mad grab for money.
if as they say poetry is emotion
recollected in tranquility,
maybe I'll never write poetry again.
how will I ever be tranquil now?
if this gives weight to the grief
that has tended to float all my life
like a leaf in air descending
from a tree,
but autumn always harbored
the spring.
and now
instead of a leaf,
I see the body of man tumbling.
is the tumbling man proud?
he stands upside down in thin air
against the building he built
as if the earth he reaches for was always
only the sky.
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