after the afterimage aches with dead light
with the sky like a television turned off,
young, dark, arctic streams carry over
curbs and through the streets the rinse-water
of trash, oil, scum, dirt, vomit, leaves, fecal matter,
nearly monochromatically inked.
but when the storm is done, incarnadine
ribbons light the message in the clouds
on the duct-taped windows of the precinct.