the footnote swallows the page. today new york kind of looks like
beirut, but beirut never looked like new york. yet new york kind
of cuts to the quick as it quickens. the dispossessed define the
dying age. we were so wrapped up in the internecine strife of the
last of the so-called 'european' centuries, my compadres, that we
didn't see it coming. so the footnote works its way up from the
bottom of the page, filled with a certain understandable sense
of rage at justice unforthcoming. i have seen two feet standing
proud in the sand, cathedrals worn away by the rain, new dawns
bringing season's change relentless.