Here -
Where...busy ripped cloth store front is box fresh and smokey..
Where...puzzled footstep is matched with clumsy frail voice..
Where...pick-up warnings are scratched into street corner metal..
Where...small creatures move tightly through weed walls at midday..
Where...glass shadow stretches into shoeless avenue..
Where...blank looks remain stubborn with old age..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Documentary Fiction Photography
Steve Coel
