I ain’t been down 

this road since I’ve been
 
banned, he said,
and it gargled up over the
eaves of abandoned mansions,
would-be air bnbs bent
ogling every
 
step, once
ladies in waiting, now
sourdough starter for what
(dulled trysts amidst moloch and urizen)
 
was but unplumbable rubble and dry-
wall-delousing-powder-wan con-
dos cramped, all
 
flexed like a 
fist is flexed, like a worm-
hole spanning its 
skull with a 
stammering 
sphincter. What becomes
 
of the stuttering eye
or what flutters, like
koi fish swollen in shriveling
tiles and thighs of a public pool no
natural law gnawed knowingly
 
into the jaws of life, green mold of all 
magic and miracles—what precludes such
koi from cropping up here about
broken biers of retired toilets, the
sallowing sinks of some souring
washroom whetting its toes against 
gull-grey tsuris and tactfully acned
tarmac? Speak.
 
I’ll smear some god’s
or my brother’s diminishing 
names amongst cigarette cherries
and see what comes to claim the graven
scrip or the bubble-script burst come 
blistering morning—