A warehouse slid into the street, shuffle of yellow brick beneath the stoplight, no cars, but in the stone a man's cane, a gull's blood.
From the rich wood of the coffined attic the bats decanted, circled the turrets, a mugger with one eye rolled on the sky.
He walked beside the red pole, deep cut, black line.
A box of toys blew over, rain whipped the porch rail, a boy skinny and wet fed his cat through the window screen.
The steps were white cakes, green roses of beer bottles and dead flowers, a woman feigning sleep on the sidewalk.
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