Inside, hard jazz and booze
        going down like Gypsies just uncovered.
        Pearl Street bricked over by sin abandoned
        or, more likely, unclaimed. Catacombs
        deteriorate and slowly collapse in earthen holes
        bored clean by human worm. The dredded 

        old black man pounds a broken drum
        until even king departs. His viscous eyes
        yellowed from dreams or smoke or herb,
        left behind in alley while ancients gripe
        and lay down tiles over tiles over brick that
        asphalt can’t contain. A wild woman
        scrambles up upon stone, belts out scripture 

        in exothermic bursts, granting anyone
        a cheap grace. Ignored, she sees decomposition
        within. A final fault revealed. Withering sand
        between rock, or a grave suddenly empty. A hope
        untendered or, this time, undefined.