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A killer

On a red brick walk
souls with little equipment
are hastening, to where
are moving, moving

alive under their feet
I decided, in soil
I am a coin tossed
I am not coming back to split wood

in a meek procession
crushed together by the clocks
into lunch corners
and suds running in pipes

they take a few telephone calls
in a basement, they continue
in the deep walls, waiting for embraces and words
to burn through both sides

in a work of brick and stone
off the city map, I'm watching
them with their eyes, my absence unpaid
the contraction in all their expansion

moves railroad rails into triangles
and the bleak docks lean and waver
I am not coming over for dinner
I am holding these pillars of ice

escape written into my sinews
has swollen in rugs and floorboards
I'm keeping the attic barren
those who visit will be unknown to me.

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