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--- J E F F R E Y   E T H A N   L E E

Three shots amplify the concrete gutters of the night sky— lights blink on—then off.

Then the stiff silences between the first and last shots— checking which windows lit?...

Wind rings through metallic leaves— plastic bags tumble past park benches crackling.

Then sirens, braking— skid-stopping, then doors slam— at last, a radio beeps-blurts.

Underground machinery grinds the deep continuo of subways roaring.

The addictive rhythms of Rap boom thrumming from a box— a kid watching the cops.

© crossconnect, inc 1995-2004 |
published in association with the |
university of pennsylvania's kelly writers house |