Dancing in Pakistan

The stink of skin hanging in charcoal strips from mangled
bones.
The sight of people leaping to their doom like living, shrieking
rain.
The thundercloud of drifting debris and combusted petroleum.
The fumes of burning, blooded upholstery and synthetic rubber
insulation.
The impaled hip of the South twin tower, twisting, crumbling,
giving.

'We're fucking dieing up here' a burning woman cries down the line of
her cellular,
While she scrambles for the window, smelling the foulness as her flesh
burns crisp.
A fire fighter stumbles down eighty-seven floors in the space of six
seconds, as the tower gives in to its weakening beams.

The men with guns and dusty shrouds dance in the streets of
Pakistan.
The children laugh and sing and play.
The women kiss them and clap with the music.