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
of the body of breath the wreck-
age of syntax of sex