we do it for
        the stars over the Bronx
        that they may look on earth
        and not be ashamed
        —Diane di Prima


I.

Moonlight humiliates the landscape:
in the empty stadium a fascist throws
the first pitch. There are no cheers.

II.

The streets are empty except
for the paleta man and his paletas,
teenagers posted up at the bus stop
counting their change in a huddle,
a woman walking to work, or
walking home from work, or
walking from work to work.
Everyone trying to make
ends meet to keep the end
at bay another month.

III.

The buildings are empty except
for the people—the people—
who live inside them.

IV.

Condemned; adjective:
sentenced to a particular punishment, especially death.
They pretend to only speak
of buildings this way
but we know.

V.

Language still matters.
A man keeps his passport
in his backpack because
there is a fascist in office.
There is a fascist
in the empty stadium
throwing the first pitch.
A man keeps his passport
in his backpack because
under nationality it reads
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA,
under birthplace, THE BRONX.
As if this matters to them.

VI.

Citizens snatched
into unmarked vans.
Condemned in sunlight.

VII.

A burning police car
that flickers
in the eye of every window,
encircled by a cheering crowd,
the Earth’s only star
winking up
at its ancestors.