The Towers   A word we hardly use anymore: glimmer. The way they looked at night from our twelfth- floor bedroom in Stuy Town. Or how the simple play of sunlight on glass, in itself cliché, summoned me anyway with sheer chest-thumping magnitude: Behold. I darted through the shadowed plaza on my dear nimble bike, not yet stolen. From the harbor they bared the world’s mightiest buck teeth. Beautiful? Ugly? I couldn’t decide. Not until I saw the smoke and fire pouring from the holes and fled upstairs: a TV lit a glimmering circle of my friends, moaning in the moment of their widowhood.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont September 2011