Helicopters

spiraling down from the uncle's elm tree

always looked like people to me: rotating,

careening through so much

hot air, spinning

down through words that have

no meaning anymore; words like "shooting" that roll off the tongue

names like "Santa Fe"

(which once meant "holy faith" but who

in Santa Fe has faith in our laws anymore)

when the catacombs are bursting

with skulls too small to belong there

our only response is to continue screaming

and to let the bullets fly because they do not

hit us; there are places for the dead

but there are no places for children

they are the seeds of tomorrow's past

but what am I doing? this poem has no meaning

except for what you give it

it is pure Babel - a crumbling tower built from

guttural noises - your eyes fall through it

grasping for meaning

through my words you seek

to reconstruct

a fragmented world

but I will only fail you in this regard

words are only noises and as I speak

the dead stay dead

and we return to where we were going,

spiraling down

through so much hot air

years have passed since

I watched the helicopters fall

the uncle's elm is almost bare

soon it will go the way of all things

but spring is in bloom and the city morning

full of noises

shines its light on a sapling as it pierces

the earth's crust; like the hand of Lazarus

it reaches out into the meaningless air

a new world with old wounds is whispering

new meanings to us

and if we stop Babeling

and learn to listen

maybe we can grow

just a little