by Snehal Bhadani Max Griss Steel bars crosshatch the sky into trembling cells of light. Below, the taxicabs glint in emerald so sharp it stings my eyes. The fruit-seller’s cart spills overripe melon: sweet, gangrenous. Little black plums crowd like wet beetles. The train’s horn guts the air, bellowing the arrival of the traveler. The elderly shuffle in slow arithmetic. Children dart with expertise, like minnows through the throng. In one hand a newspaper, and in the other, c