Had our prophets gone before?
Or were we not listening? That day
Did language crumple into sound, again,
From towers falling?

The night before that day,
I fell asleep angry.
I dreamed of a field of wheat,
Ripe and golden, rich with life.

I see that dream of wheat still,
Lush with promise, Silent.
Wheat, harvest, weeping prophets,
Broken, then, again