The
overlay of images
claimed these walls as canvases.
A
wheatpasted moka pot
with a pistol-grip hanlde.
Imagine
it held to your head.
This
podged ruelle runs
fluorescent with Molotoved
handstyles,
a bearded Queen Elizabeth
gawks at
a row of dumpsters
and crack-pipe
shards that
list on
the pissy tarmac.
On
welfare day the alley’s thronged,
spooked pigeons clap up
into
cocaine clouds and blue.
The shooting
gallery fills
like a
syringe’s barrel,
the
flash-squatted stairwells,
the
buffed walls with names—
And from
the one stitch of
interstice
between pavement
and
brick—
an aster flower
leans
sunward to lick.
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