With a creaky organ wheeze
these evenings—those old
buildings go
sighing
out though their stained
glass noses—
hoping to be inhaled
and infect the ones
walking past—
who certainly feel glum
as rusticated
brick in late afternoon sun,
who won't seem
to wake up,
but who refuse
to go back to sleep either.
But it's useless; mere sight
is anathema
when their mouths
remain shut
and their noses
and ears
are plugged up, have
grown used
to being forewarned
or soothed
by Nick Drake or
Daniel Johnston
instead
of Martin Luther.
