I wrote this last year:

I listened to the incantation of names; watched the spouses and
partners on television. Later, caught a few minutes of Bush using the
day as an opportunity to justify his war; watched ABC’s  fictionmentary
about real events, real people,

It was already 12:15 a.m. on September 12th when I took a walk down Seventh Avenue to see the lights.

The light was shooting up from the top of PS 321 in the midnight
blue sky. Above Key Food, Old First Church. The light walked with me
down the Avenue (shopping list:  Spoon size Shredded Wheat, Raisin
Bran, ballpoint pens for TC, orange juice).

The beam of light was sharp, beautiful (there may be two, but out
here in Park Slope it looks like a single beam).  I wish it was here
every night and of course I do not.

Presence. Absence. It speaks of loss, while introducing something dramatic and new to the city night.

The shop lights were on at Sweet Melissa’s, where a crew was busy
getting the shop ready for  its grand opening on Wednesday. Paper
covering counters, tools everywhere, the name being stenciled onto the
front window. Something new.

Except for the Korean Market on Garfield, Key Food, Pino’s, nothing
was open on Seventh Avenue; it was desserted. I saw a few stragglers at
Snooky’s (for a moment I thought I might go in and order a scotch, it
seemed like the appropriate thing to do). Workers standing outside of
Starbucks waiting for a car; voices inside the playground; a dog walker
or two.

Back on Third Street the light comes out from behind the limestone
buildings. Blue television light illuminates a checkerboard of
windows;  time to go upstairs. Wanting: to stand outside; to be the
only one there at that moment; quiet, alone.