Modern cities where mirros are broken for fun

The bullhorn breaks through the fog, as in too many shattered voices scattered
across the macadam, as in modern cities licking at my feet in the rain, neck craned
to summersault single file into the line-up town where the working girls wander, and
Washington is known for its serial killers, it's rain, suicide rate, rash women trudging
through one more lane of stopped traffic in the night-fog; the thrust of my scull southward,
breaking the surface for air, while the wind slaps hair across my face – and I walk,
walk, and walk, watch the tug boats twirl on invisible corners in the water and edges of the bruise on
my leg as it turns dusky, turns my flesh into night itself. There was snow in modern cities once,
girls screaming at the top of their lungs until they go hoarse, weeks turning into months, turning
into years of cackling bad luck when long ago she used to break mirrors for fun.