through the alley

so rare we turn

into an alley on our own,

in twilight,

by mistake, but there 

is something

magical and dark, old

about a long stretch of

wet brick and muck,

of cans turned over,

of those lost

unconscious against barred

windows.

the rotted doors.

boys with knives,

and women

waiting with open arms

and legs for who's next.

careful of the rats as

we transverse

this hollow

with its echoing sound

of sirens and screams.

we wonder if we can get to

the other side,

through this unmapped cut

to another street.