I am stumbling down a dust-clouded stairwell
I am standing, astonished, as the window turns to air
I am sitting at a desk while the walls twist around me
my child’s photograph is tilting toward my hands.
I am falling, flying backwards;
tiny black arms and legs spread wide, I embrace the sky
blue and bright above me with the sun’s white eye.
I am an instant, that moment when you pause to take a breath
and speak, but words will not come
a round No is rolling in your mouth
as you raise your hand against the glare and,
turning, look toward me
behind you, already moving
rumbling to my knees.
Morning clouds have come inside now, their cool vapor blended
with hot smoke, concrete crumbled
into ash.
I am stumbling down the stairwell
and fly away with your last glimpse
of plumes, fountains, sprays of glass and stone and paper
spiraling up with each beat of my fall
soundless, but for your swallowed No
as I step into the air.
October 29, 2001