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.

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