the trash gets collected around evening in this city

we walk, each eye a telescope scanning the asphalt horizon

each block stinky with possibility; a pile of disco records

a rusted box, yellow scripted letters that say J.A. Bradley

like the painter knew every answer turns into a question

2.

we sketch maps of the city, highlight the best neighborhoods

and people say our generation doesn't know how to get busy

these days you can study Melville or the architecture of freeways

trash is a teacher with different credentials, a plastic badge

a puzzle that excites because it may be missing pieces

3.

the moon is made of the purest trash, neon in the black

whistling Tin Pan Alley songs into a rusting old microphone

each intersection becomes familiar, the bags incognito, faces

pointing the way home, which is every direction, which is trash

the bags tied shut, the world bound in secret knots