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I live in Brooklyn, about eight miles south of ground zero.
Tuesday afternoon, after the collapse of Seven World Trade Center,
which was not one of the towers but a forty-something storey building,
I was in Marine Park nearby here from which we could see the towers
on a clear day before their collapse.

Paper began falling from the sky as smoke blew over. Just then a man who
sometimes practices the bagpipes in the park began playing. I wrote the
following poem:


From the smoke cloud carried by the north wind
a snow of paper fell: ledgers, printouts, compilations,
reports. Whole pages, and fragments with charred edges,
snowed about a lone bagpiper playing “Amazing Grace” in a Brooklyn field,
piping the innocent to God’s presence.