Written by Lee Butler 
After Paul Neruda 

There’s nothing but death  
on these streets. 
Nothing but fired bullets 
behind bus stops, 
stepping on needle lids with new boots, 
blunt wraps littered on cracked concrete, 
and cigarette butts, 
followed by yellow spit and breathless coughs. 
These streets are flooded 
with the blood of 
violence and love lost. 
Darling, these streets are nothing but death.