It’s a fuckin’ party in this alley.
People leave cigarettes to lay like confetti
while mists of dust motes touch,
falling from fire escapes to form aureoles
on trash strewn around.
In particular, bottles of Svedka.
They catch the moth light, as in a cistern.
And aborted hoops of gold earrings
lie like a trail of bread crumbs
on steps that go all the way down,
descending into hell.
There the alley cat’s vulva
bursts with new kittens.