there are leaves on the ground, here.
and we can walk to
this place or
that
with the clicking of boot heels.
in bed,
flesh sprawls
hitting each window.
sandalwood and cigarettes, smoke the
birds and the
trees and the
ceiling.
elevators take us deeper in (where)
asthmatic children play warehouse (with)
scrap-metal and broken mouths.
the streets are never quiet,
are the walls, anymore?
and sprawling
sprawling bodies
in Brooklyn, we call home.
No comments:
Post a Comment