Thanks for that reminder, Andrew. I did recall Kirsch but couldn't find the book where I expected it to be on my shelves. I looked harder this morning. Here's a sample from Invasions:
September fifteenth, and the house is full.
It seems few patrons died or stayed at home.
The City Opera, brave, professional,
Reminds us and themselves the show goes on.
Ash drifting north has left a coat so thin
The cladded travertine still glitters white,
And so mild no one coughs to breathe it in
On the hot breeze of a late summer night--
What I call ash, but know to be this face,
Snapshotted, Xeroxed, stapled to a pole,
Which every breath I take helps to erase
And scatter incorporate in a new whole.
But what air isn't filled with old remains
Like these, and infinitely multiplied?
What did they die for but our ignorance
Of the ways and times and reasons why they died?
(I hope it's acceptable in a context of discussion to present a whole poem still in copyright.)
I do admire Kirsch's poems, though I like them best taken individually. Invasions as a collection made me feel judged and condemned, I think.
Interestingly, the Nemerov poem also judges public reaction to a tragedy and finds it shallow.
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