By Edward Smallfield

                                                        from the park
high above                  the city of                    eros:
eros                     el jefe                       the boss
                             'it is nightingale and not the lark'
                                   'a star to every wandering bark'

those men with brooms of twigs             & the loss
of innocence          is          the loss        of guilt     the cost
of living:                     a tower                           marks
                    the square                              with shadows
                                          with bruises              with bells
                                                                           & who tells
                                                                  the narrows
of the body              of breath                    the wreck-
      age                           of syntax                    of sex