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The night dark of Brooklyn,
Dirty amber streets,
Trains running down deep green.
We are all living things,
Under the metal violence of wheels,
Cold tumble of rusted steel,
Old tiles that fall into a grind of dust.
I feel a grinding in my chest,
A rumble under my feet.
But I’ll keep walking.
I’ll go down dark under deep.
I’ll keep running fingers over black tile teeth
Until all the skin there is gone.
