Old signs of modernity posted on a monument still warm from lava and the salty tongue of the sea. Dactylic fingers, bleached ribs, and O'Keeffean flowers sprouting twice a year from the sweat of tourist brows, cooling into breccial dark debris blowing up a magi's lunatic hat that comes to a point: What can this be?               

Spire of a buried church? Coarse black nipple from Cybele's breast, portending the future Oppenheimer felt, making its lactate bitter-sweet? Obelisk by which priests of Technology hotly debate the dispassionate   shadows of stoic dreams?

Ground Zero chants below the earth in the same voice
that pumped commands to a sun that rose in the West
as a new form of death; then rose again, in the East,
to an old way of life.

Pressurized, alone in their moment of infamy, stones weep uncontrollably, a bridge floats beneath broken clouds, a temple bows to shallow bowl of a plane, like a paper crane, flies from a child's hand.