behind the fire of bones
canals caressing
lard painted rocks
rooms lit by the lonely
porches dripping down
a cliff face of paint
metallic spiral doors.
The street I knew
scraped bare by roving plows
that never return
to any stop or station
curbs and rutted corners
swirling in a mist
of pink eruptions.
Cloth eyes and button mouths
gone far from animating wires
the upward paths
descending into space.
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