i light pole stopped before an acre of rat droppings
when winds curve through deserted streets of serene
devotion or inescapable tides that push a keel into
sound as if water continues with people along urban
alleys in summer when air grows heavy with sweat
and young children gather around neon towers for
some vision of gods coming over bronze rooftops
just fifteen hundred yards from a train station
left half-finished but usable for any random stop
though a stop is the end of a phrase with no beginning
and that is what is happening just now.
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