Today of all days—
the day after another unspeakable act
that is spoken of over and over,

joining the chorus of tragedies
humans visit upon each other,
the killings and starvings,

the bombings and beatings—
we think of those in the towers
when they fell,

of those we love afloat
across the veil, our hands reaching
to penetrate the thin places

to connect with them. You
hold someone in your heart
right now, as do I,

perhaps many someones,
as your tender core pulses,
as you wish theirs still did.

We so easily divide into us
and them, we the living.
I hope that the dead do not,

that every soul, every pinpoint
of light, is an us, that we,
blasted open by grief,

allow ourselves to rest in
the thin places, at the sacred
sites, the unhurried moment

this morning as I folded
the laundry in the bedroom
he and I once shared,

just the current kitty and me,
as he arrived in a whoosh,
lingering in the corner

as he does more often than
I notice. As he so blessedly
does.