After Paul Neruda

There’s nothing but death 

on these streets. 

Nothing but fired bullets 

behind bus stops, 

stepping on needle lids with new boots, 

blunt wraps littered on cracked concrete, 

and cigarette butts, 

followed by yellow spit and breathless coughs. 

These streets are flooded 

with the blood of 

violence and love lost. 

Darling, these streets are nothing but death.