every row house on columbia place
disappeared a generation ago
ripped level to the ground
leaving the october grass
in the frost
by itself
echoes of the marcels
breaking barriers
bricks & mortar still in small piles
in the corners of the alley
if you take the sacred time
to find it
the stoops held
every tear
not in a song
but an anthem
fearless
in the nick of time
my sadness
his eyes
a throng waves
his ivy league convertible
coming down to rub our shoulders
a broken proletarian haze
between us
no words
but rhythm
a thousand dreams
--- e b bortz
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