Architects’ Bet

we have so much air
under the ceiling of this flagged mentionable

sport-fed pigeons and their anticipated humans
dependably prepared to eek a way through tunnels of sludge
to stand high against the vent-ducts of helmet-sight, as

an announcer from the theme within the district rises
a steam of haunted water brim-frothy from a bowl of oceanic currency
running through the participants bones, it’s what

constitutes a clean make-up, a quick
cash out, a receptionist chair, a dial tone
and its frequency, exact, precise, a thin

line of language zones in and out of hearing
administering a soft lullaby to the opposing ear

slowly duality hardens into stone and stands there, as
ash falls where rains’ replaced with blood and the
statue cracks down into bread crumb pieces of chess board

flock against the grain of sand
following a whisper

the shape of which
a large T
and on it
history nailed


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