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through rain on slippery Manhattan streets Wolfman Librarian of Manhattan here to heal The 9/11 11.9 September 11
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dead and play them home with the trombone pieces lodged in your throat you are choking cough it up you vomit yourself up out of yourself and wolverines in peripheral greenery are here to suckle your red thread until white milk bursts forth and you sing together beneath the trees wordless songs and learn to breathe awake again. Now the sky is grey. The patches of blue are going. Only the water spirits are protecting you by this circle fountain. Rise, thank them, and move on. The clouds are rolling through the typewriter sun. I really am Wolfman Librarian for the porpoises of this poem sunning on the rocks by the fountain I put them there with imagination--
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