America’s poet laureate, Billy Collins, wrote a poem he called ‘The Names’ about the 2,792 who perished that day. Here are its closing lines:
Names etched on
the head of a pin.
One name spanning
a bridge, another
undergoing a tunnel.
A blue name needled
into the skin.
Names of citizens,
workers, mothers,
and fathers,
The bright-eyed
daughter, the quick son.
Alphabet of names in
a green field.
Names in the small tracks of birds.
Names lifted from a hat
Or balanced on
the tip of the tongue.
Names wheeled
into the dim warehouse
of memory.
So many names, there
is barely room on
the walls of the heart.”