Eight years pass—
same 7:05 AM Seattle ferry commute,
same newscast ear pods—
and names toll from Ground Zero.
From sunny waterfront
I stroll to work,
have no urgent exchanges
with passersby.
But never distant,
strangers clasp hands,
leap
into bloody mists.

(No. 81 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

I was walking to work on a nice morning, absorbed by antics of the North African cab drivers who hang out in front of the Seattle ferry terminal, and vaguely listening to NPR–just your usual urban Buddhist multitasking.  Then the toll of names started, and the whole situation re-exploded in my mind.

What emerged is this poem’s three-part muse on: “things are the same, but not really;”  “we forget;” and then, the pink-foamed horror of unforgettable images and recollections.  It had never occurred to me that atomized human blood can  form a ground fog 100 feet high.

Where does all this leave us?   As a middle school teacher who read this poem observed, “Most of my current students don’t have any recollection of 9/11.”  And then, my old pal, Han-shan, says things like, “Following tales of the Immortals won’t save you.  We all die, even emperors.”  But even he might agree that moment by moment we “tangle eyebrows” with those who came long before us.

So yes, they’re still jumping.  And us along with them.

(Numeric reference to Han-shan’s poem reflects the order of presentation in Burton Watson’s translation, presented as Cold Mountain, Columbia University Press, 1970.)