There were poems all over Broadway that morning.
Blowing across traffic.   Against the legs.
Held for a moment on the backs of hands.
Drifts of poems in doorways.
The crowd was a river to the highest tower
all the way down that avenue.
Snow on that river, torn paper
of their faces.

Late at night, in a dark-blue sleep,
the paper stopped blowing.
Lightning struck at me from behind my eyes.