up from the subway not having heard anything.
Someone says there's an airplane
engine in the intersection.
Someone's had time to put out police tape.
As if there will be doubt.
You recognize a face in the turbulence:
late to work, not one of the go-getters
some of whom have started lying uncharacteristically down
on the job two blocks away.
You say what you know.
You were sitting at your desk.
There was a lazy flicker
in the lights then wrenching
torsion incident to roar.
You left the building
to ascertain facts. The fire
is low key and insane,
the hole—simple and clear
as a child's axial drawing of a bird—
shows a final drift to port.
People overhead are taking
small and lasting steps.
One turned back as if she
had forgotten something.
Gravity's towncar
whisked her away.
When you say people
you're making an inference.
You only speak for one.
