In the ironbound section near Avenue L
where the Portuguese women come to see what you sell
the clouds so low the morning so slow
as the wires cut through the sky
The beams and bridges cut the light on the ground
into little triangles and the rails run round
through the rust and the heat
the light and sweet coffee color of her skin
Bound up in wire and fate
watching her walk him up to the gate
in front of the ironbound school yard.
Kids will grow like weeds on a fence
She says they look for the light...
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