Off target planes de-throttle
to re-smelt the Russwin doorknobs,
their tired steel.
Hands that once embraced such metal--
turning points from halls to
windowed rooms -- have fallen with the rubble.
Not to hold a single door.
To lay in wreckage.
Knobs detached to form no entries.
Moans from under cinder yearn in unison,
stretch for the door to another side.
They char from jet fuel flames,
they smolder...
plane-shattered sun and buildings.