Inhale the impossibilities, framing faces
with Boston smog and Alston fumes
freezing on eyelashes
you swore you have seen before
on some train through downtown Hell,
a crust-dripping slice of allyway
propped up with rusting mortar;
or probably both.
And all the City’s strangers
are trackmarks pocking the veins
of One Ways and Do Not Enters,
each as you are.
Listen to that rush of wind
screaming up through sidewalk grates
of what will never be,
because you won’t be seeing any stars.
Jenna-Nichole may or may not bleed ink.