When afternoon light vibrates
too violently between the topmost
stories of the highest towers,
glass shatters on cairns of gold,
shedding a purple spume of splinters.

It is one of the many rains we have learned
to live with in Manhattan, to be shrugged
off proudly; especially in autumn,
when the hard sky scintillates with
slivers of light, blinding us.

On the corner, a Julliard student
is bowing a Bach partida for violin alone.
Infinitesimal shards of glass spin
down to the sidewalk, where she plays
with poise and concentration.

It doesn't matter that no one notices
the thinnest lace of blood coursing
her temple. People, moved by her ardor,
her tone and facility, drop quarters
into her violin case and hurry home.