PEDESTRIAN
At the end of the street, a municipal building breathes in the city’s diesel.
The shadows break the spine of thresholds; they lay down to fornicate on the sidewalk.
With an arm fixed on the wall, a darkened street lamp has the convex vision of those that pass in cars.
The looks of the transients dirty the things that are exhibited in the shop windows, the legs that hang under the hoods of the victories get skinny.
Next to the sidewalk, a bodega has just finished swallowing whole a human.
A church that is identical to a street lamp, passes; a train that is a school on wheels; a dog used to failure with hooker eyes that shame us as we watch and pass.
All of a sudden: the watchman on the corner detains in one sudden stroke all the trembling of the city, so that we may hear in one solid gulp, the murmur of all breasts as they are scraped.
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