The brow above the forelock,
cursing to be freed
from the living straw,
spaces and their luxuries
descending away from
his kleptomaniac hands,

a struggle with the banister highway,
traces of the departing law,
a lumped-in weasel
crying from the clay of cheese
that stuck him there,

a tame unit, reptile detector
switched off by the stream
of special energy,

tracking his ruined fortune
into a maze of invisible fumes,
waving a peace stick,
plucking a hollow circuit
with blood filled teeth.