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Yarn taggers and their measured
screams along the overpass

wake me before dawn. Or it’s the siren
again. Leftover fireworks, a dumpster diver

slams the lid, not gun
shots. I just imagine the drama

unfolding in a half-spun, sticky
dream. Fences maybe, definitely not brick

walls. Where are the vocal chords, where
does the air get through? No

the end. What’s next? Someone high
on bath salts. What a way to go.

Cleveland Graffiti

Burned out, abandoned with warnings that exhale
on the stern facade. One letter per pane, tagger’s red
paint spells it out for me:

E L E V A T O R
S H A F T
D O N O T
E N T E R           Never        mind

the barbed wire fence, I
wasn’t planning to make that leap. The clock
on that shuttered Romanian community center across

the street reminds me
it’s 5:45 pm
same as last fall and the visit before that. Still there will be
more stairs to climb.

If I Could Have Been Eva 62

Somewhere way uptown
“Bird Lives.” Barefoot
and in love, two dart
through wet cement.
Pen pals will be 

spawned. Stenciled
broken promises, the Bronx
could have come crumbling 

down. But it’s held on
for the ride. When the last
of the writing on the wall 

rolled along those tracks,
I arrived ready
to be winded
by those step streets.
I didn’t know it 

would be the shape
shifting that would catch me
in the throat.