Two months before the terrorist attack a sixteen-year-old walked into a hospital in New York City, handed the receptionist a note — “Please donate my organs in case of death” — then blew his brains out in front of her. Six hours later his removed eyes were transplanted into the empty eye sockets of a sixty-year-old woman blind since birth who two months later turned on morning TV to see skyscraper apocalypse. No one ever saw two of the tallest buildings on Earth burn and collapse in less time than it took the Titanic to sink. Till now. Walt Whitman 150 years ago stood where the World Trade Center towers would stand and looked up at circling sea gulls looking down at him, little knowing skyscrapers so high would be built or jet planes exist hijacked by deranged fanatics deliberately crashing into those skyscrapers murdering thousands because they think God wants them to. Ten years ago at the victory parade in downtown Manhattan after the Persian Gulf War, snowstorms of confetti wafted down on drunk celebrators from triumphant skyscrapers above, from soaring and mighty skyscrapers above. Makes me wish Immortality existed for the victims and their loved ones, even if it doesn’t exist, makes me wish it true for them. Makes me wish there were a heaven that could compensate for this hell. One American said he wouldn’t be satisfied till he saw children in Afghanistan running down the street on fire, screaming. Another told his girlfriend as she ate dinner there are more rats in New York City than people and he couldn’t get out of his mind the image of thousands of rats descending into the ruins at night following dark shadows under debris, under twisted metal girders, down, down, to eat body parts of mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, lovers, friends. . . . She said she wished he hadn’t brought it up while she was eating. Rats don’t know about hijackers or what caused the magnificent towers to come crashing down, but it makes them happy night after night, a midnight feast under subterranean skyscraper rubble. Have the winds blown enough by now that we have all breathed particles of the burned-up corpses? Sooner or later all of us will inhale invisible remains of the incinerated victims, their atoms and molecules spinning in space, transported by breezes little by little dispersing outward, spreading outward till all of us have inside us through breathing the vanished corpses that will never be found but that found us and became buried within us. A sea gull circles and soars where the skyscrapers once stood, wondering what happened to the two huge monoliths and the shadows they cast on each other. Meanwhile four miles from Ground Zero in the Frick Gallery near Central Park in a room next to the marble courtyard with its pillar’d colonnade and arching skylight, with its fountain pool with two gold frogs at either end spurting continuous long arcs of water, Saint Francis in Ecstasy by Giovanni Bellini, painted the same year Columbus set sail in search of a New World, still shows Saint Francis barefoot in his monk’s robe emerging from his hermit cave leaving behind his desk with closed Bible and human skull looking up with arms outstretched in awe to fields and woods and mountains as the sunrise engulfs the world in the light of another day.