“THE ART OF BREATHING” 12-11-02

In the ash and smoke
I walk
my hands open
to try and touch you
now that
ash is all that is left

of your cremation.
My boy. My lovely boy.
I know you are somewhere in the dust
Somewhere in this rubble.
Are the ashes of my lover
your hands slip through mine.

Ashes, dust
That one day will become us.
My hands against the grains
hoping for one last touch
as the Towers fell
our love became history and dust.

11 September 2001

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