Of orange corners at their end.
Of walking through the lights
That do not see me, I am invisible.
Of my feet grazing the ash.
Of my fingers that grasp the wrath
Of white-hot tubes of relief.
Of summer's aging teeth.
I am sick no longer, only sad,
Waiting for autumn's wreath.
It blooms with every wasted day.
I am guilty of living on this street.
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