Holes decorate the path, tiny drops
of polystyrene blowing tickets.
Little is luminous,
the dry is turned.
Lay aside the gods for a minute,
they've no price but may require it.
The end of the work song
burns itself, stained with open-ended nights.
Recycled sheen smells of the chemist’s lamp,
anaesthesia torn from the spine.
How an interior tears a door into words,
water drains inside a dream.
You must slip stealthily into the ventilator,
the market will be normal after that.