After the precondition
A history of seedless planning
resolved itself in purple sheets
for local consul swaddling;
the council tenants stand
around the drying public grass;
after curdling,
the milk is tasted, spoiled.
A nursing mother sways
on one standing leg,
then hops
quietly fretting
over little archangel in his sackcloth,
and round the ruined towers, the nettles
appear
to twist themselves
in broken shapes that nestle curds.
The air that's left to breathe is of an old museum.
In the customary fashion
Back then, the shadows of the individual leaves
swaddle the limbs of tired flats. There are whispers
in the walls about swaddling. There’s a story burning
and in it, a young face is pushed into apple pie
to laughter. The invasion does not come in the shape of French troops
– there are none. I’ve been drinking, which you can tell
by how my jacket falls. I’ll hang you up at a key moment,
right as you say something nice. You might fear me more
if you knew about the pie. At the party blockade, the first sound
is not music. I’ll beg mercies for someone
I’ll never know, someone I’ll wear a hat and coat for,
who drops crystals in my kidneys, his fear
bloating out my waistband, though I’d ask how many
guys like me out there are bilious, with a few loose leaves
in the bottom of the bag. When you smile,
the rusted balconies creak and threaten to crush the passing residents. I’m brave
only when the eyes are averted. There is no history round here
after regeneration. You could clean out
the fat from the valves. Since I hung you up there
could I ever be clean? I’ll hand you a limb
before the cinder blocks crumble.