I will stand on Bowery with my heart facing south,
you hide yourself around the corner
and aim your arrow at me.
I’ll shut my eyes and hold up my chin
you take your time and direct your spite at me.
Hang I will from the oak in our garden,
you point the spray-paint nozzle at me cheek.
Leave me dripping red and purple
you take a cap home and wipe your fingers clean.

— 2010 November 28