On my way home
each step provokes
a battle against the cans
in the plastic bag
and another battle against
the plastic bag and the side of my knee.
I look down
at my brown shoes
and the pavement beneath them.
Each crack
frames one side of the square,
each side walks against me.

I remember another Square
where yesterday
the residue of life
ran through cracks
in concrete
leaving each individual blood stream
to forage a new:
a collective stream through the
cracks in China.

Blue uniforms with hands
sop up the body fluid.

A brontide makes my sidewalk quiver.

Approaching is a convoy of
tanks.
Returning to their crime scene.

I face the street,
my two feet standing
the tips of my brown shoes
framing one side of the square.
An offing.

Stride, stride, stride.
While my blood is still pump, pump, pumping.
My plastic bag swings.

I stand against.















Engines stop.
My two feet stand against.