Phrensy
The new market is being built here,
atop the old one. Salvage is a major player.
It never stops. I want to give the past away
but I need more time to diagram a story
of someone convicted after being caught
by the same fear that they first locked up.
It is an architectural fable that begins
with a thousand sleepers together waking
early to make the morning news, and ends
in poverty. There was no reprobation
to dictate that sort of beauty before now,
just a single object, lonely as an epigraph.
It fills the space something disappeared from,
to prove the nature of its disappearance.
The object has been stole, wagered,
loaned, bought, traded, and given away
as a wedding present. Now the horizon
destroys itself as I replicate a fist again and
again and again in the palm of my hand.