The great Polish poet Wisława Szymborska attempted something similar in her poem “Photograph from September 11”:
They jumped from the burning floors — 
one, two, a few more, 
higher, lower.

The photograph halted them in life, 
and now keeps them 
above the earth toward the earth.
Each is still complete, 
with a particular face 
and blood well hidden.
There’s enough time 
for hair to come loose, 
for keys and coins 
to fall from pockets.
They’re still within the air’s reach, 
within the compass of places 
that have just now opened.
I can do only two things for them — 
describe this flight 
and not add a last line.

(translated by Clare Cavanagh and Stanislaw Baranczak)