cigarettes and skittles
on the bridge jutting over the Hudson

the space between January and now is
9 or 3 months backwards or forward

it's the Irish in me that's silent
the Italian in me that's screaming

sweet and smoke while the reward for
capture goes up up up

disappear and they'll find you
on the bridge jutting over the water

Harlem is sudden and cops and ice cream
Europe is going and coming and fresh bread

life is in the water where it breaks
death is there too below the moving