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Sitting at an outside table at the Bassett Café
on West Broadway, I remember, in the background
always the Twin Towers behind me
in the photographs from that time
And the sparrows in New York, bolder than anywhere
working over the scrap
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Ray is standing in front of the grave stone and staring at his friend’s name. He has been doing this every year now for eight years, every September 11 at exactly 8:46am. And every year he looks at the ground that holds his friend’s body and asks the
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They rise up, a sullen, sorrowful/
army of reproach, staring,//
stone-faced but eyed with fire.
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