Where it All Happened

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In a year, there is silence

at Ground Zero.

All the body parts

have been mailed back -

but not enough for everyone.

Someone is just a stain,

a gout of corruption on a tire tread

driven ankle deep in ash that day

over lumps that were the dead.

“He knows where the bodies are buried”

is forevermore an obscene joke; and if

Bin Laden doesn’t know the punchline,

how can we?

Someone I love is just a mote

on a migrating updraught in Spain.                                                   

(Second Prize, Bay Area Poets Annual Contest 2012, Category: Spaces & Places)

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