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Rafael Campo


  • Poetry April 18, 2002

    The Enemy

    The buildings' wounds are what I can't forget;
    though nothing could absorb my sense of loss,
    I stared into their blackness, what was not

    supposed to be there, billowing of soot
    and ragged maw of splintered steel, glass.
    The buildings' wounds are what I can't forget,

    the people dropping past them, fleeting spots
    approaching death as if concerned with grace.
    I stared into the blackness, what was not

    inhuman, since by men's hands they were wrought;
    reflected on the TV's screen, my face
    upon the building's wounds. I can't forget

    this rage, I don't know what to do with it--
    it's in my nightmares, towers, plumes of dust,
    a staring in the blackness. What was not

    conceivable is now our every thought:
    We fear the enemy is all of us.
    The buildings' wounds are what I can't forget.
    I stared into their blackness, what was not.

    Rafael Campo