Nightly
Moves
The early-oncoming chill of unseasonable
September slithers around broken
church tenement's cracked oak windowframe,
wraps about my shoulders as patch-patterned
quilting, each square a figment-face lost
in wiry AT&T-Rogers state code
speaking,
A stench of stoked coal burns through
sinus, infected with a slimmer shape's
possible promise, the hammered smokestack
clang of smelting steel fell silent,
bright as the motel vacancy sign once
could have been before a manger neglected
maintenance.
We fill time as teacup jades,
blackened patterns crawling through the
winded cupboard clatters, of cement
and plaster still finding its settle in
the bony fragment sand.
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