Between Zero and One

Whoever built this thought little of us,
thought we should have nothing,
nothing to hide — edges, nodes
and a reflective plane,
variable against a July afternoon since
attuned to its petrifaction —

wheresoever it peeps the light’s lethargic,
bruise-slow in rendering brick rain-clean,
flaked settlements of cement-dust
and serviceable masonry
travel to crystal in an open basement
alongside the cistern’s innards, now in sunlight.

A drug’s accuracy as proof of viscera,
the flattered self as cornerstone,
the thousand pinks of a long-pig’s flank
in the liquid procession of sunlight.

The room darkens across hours —
eyes can’t adjust quickly —
her elbow creaking the while
to her bangle’s sporadic clap:
homeless with all this endless applause
there’s refuge in being the most guilty.