Long coats hang on lines that stretch
across the rooftops of old duplexes
and look like invisible people pacing
around above our heads.
The old antennas still cast their slanted
shadows over the basin where water is
routed down the center like a definitive
marker for where the two halves of town
meet. Little kids dent cars using pieces of
the street that break off in chunks with edges
sharp enough to split open the skin on their
hands. They have made no such plans to let
up on their nightly attacks and when it comes
to the state of the facts you can’t overlook the
details involving; the sharpest knife ever,
the place that they were, or the veins
that they severed.

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