Sweet and bitter smoke stains the air
The verb stains has a thread torn out
I step out to the linden grove
Bruised trees are the color of sand.
Something uncoils and blows at my feet.
Sliver of mist? Bolt of beatitude?
A scrap of what was once called sky?
I murmur words that come to me
Tall towers, twin towers I used to see.
A bloody seam of sense drops free.
By Liberty Street, on a knot of rubble
In altered light, I see a bird cry.
by Meena Alexander(author of Fault Lines, Nampally Road etc)