body haul
   in slouching orbit.

   x sight. jesus christ in
              staccato
    running through desolate pews,
     bicycle on sinews of blood
       scraping macadamized walls
         rearing pains
   everybody's a stranger
    in the celestial hall.
  what part of this do you not
      understand?
   i will say it without saying it.
  everybody's a
      stranger. arithmetical concatenation of stringed lies,
       chalk faces smile at me
   through heads of tacks;
  midnight's passover:
      before dawn, its eyes
     squinting at something
   named demolition -
this evidence of stolen-into-place.