Giant girders bent and burnt and

Crushed fire engines daunt the

Halls of the museum at Albany N.Y. the

Monumental fossils of

9/11 but what will be the

Bones of war with small fry that

Flew poker-faced into the side of our souls?

After the cover-ups and cock-ups and shifty politics and

Constructive euthanasia and

Plastic heroes what

Glorious moraine can grinding folly leave?

Is that it? An

Elephants' graveyard of rusting

Ventilators breathless oxygen cylinders

Fish choking on fleets of redundant visors whole landfills of

Moth-eaten masks, yet

Frustratingly

No enemy bodies or weapons to

Gloat over,

Banal trivia for a grand carnage above all

Being our own enemies where will historians find the

Glory?