Tapping the waffle cake
concrete wall,
pins dancing on wet sandy bones,
the curb of a fenced in hill,
dawn speaking through
our pillowed windowsills,

nobody talking in the vast halls
strung with unseen lights,

scentless cubicles draping
a scaffold,
a ripped paper and its
dated ooze,

form flagged with a sagging matrix

deep in a dim pantry

one loaf of bread in a bag
talking.