If the towers fell into the East River or Hudson, would I still be here
left to count the days and nights
in soul after soul. No, I can’t really see them; I try
to understand how
even these bodies
of water would act as concrete, no cupped palms, not a single one.
So, blame the fire, its heat; the building
should’ve lasted
three hours. Jet fuel buckled the steel, and when
the floors fell 2,996 stories began.
—title from Lecture to the Institution of Civil Engineers, 3 May 1883, Lord Kelvin
II. When You Cannot Express it in Numbers
How many could run beneath steel and glass with thousands
of white pillows on thousands of gurneys
whispering together, You’re like birds
now. Your wings aren’t broken yet. Through
windows, go, yes. Collapse,
the non-solid building, ninety-five percent air, safe
implosion, and the plane’s impact could’ve moved the center
of gravity one-hundred feet to the side, but inertia, but
nearly nowhere to go but straight down.
—title from Lecture to the Institution of Civil Engineers, 3 May 1883, Lord Kelvin
III. When You Cannot Measure It
Now at night, birds spend their energy caught
off course; attracted to two bright beams, they feed
and cry. Warblers and thrushes move,
particles inside the light. Orioles and tanagers
beckon Time back to when we were most
human. Bird upon bird,
body upon body; we wait, guarded by the hope we can fill
empty spaces with what
we remember. The birds swirl round and round unable
to leave. Perhaps because they’re hungry for the past,
or they have no reason other than to act as numberless souls
on the loose, appearing infinite,
readying for a Heaven.
—title from Lecture to the Institution of Civil Engineers, 3 May 1883, Lord Kelvin
