Graffiti Voices

deafening, boisterous walls,
full of pomp
impossible to avoid
even at 65
on the 10
in a 911.

the magic scattered –
I imagine –
so late in the darkness.
(wouldn’t it be something
if I was wrong about the time?)

It is the city speaking
suppressed and inarticulate
through proper forms.

I live here,
a rainbow on dry brick.
Here you can’t paint over me
for more than a day.

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