The artless hospital devolves artisans into minimalists
the loveless corridors entomb catacombs of cleaning solution
into the hallowed architechture of the self,
the nondenominational angels took off their masks
and were ridiculed for their beauty,
the engines are churning in the glowering light of the heart
but there is some poverty between me and you
when I called you after the names of children's books
kept on cobweb shelves between the mind and its ear.

prophetic dreams buried within this skin
false prophets tunneling to sleep within
like miners crushed by timber beams in the
coal day's exhaust strewn about the street's arenas

all these sleek sins were fashioned by misers
in the history of love, all those crude lies
became our enemies tools that conspired through
the dark millenia to seat us here behind pale windows
where we hunted another's disgrace; this precision
built with consideration of the ancient lake,
call me without a phone upon the airwaves,
let your languish become a replacement for pride.