From the top of the stairs an opening

appears, past street lights and buildings

without windows.  A rippled blanket of

dusty air turns up after trucks and buses.

Humidity attacks the skin with the local flavor

from back alleys and abandoned trash.

A screen door slaps shut.  A voice rises above

the din of traffic as creatures of dusk pull at

the cords of evening’s curtains; a radio

scratches out a song like a faded tattoo.


Street corners fill with familiar faces.

Asphalt owns everything.  The trees are gone.

Busy hands weave into the thread of the city.


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