March vapors from workers'
mouths are the ghosts
Of old breaths. And the hard hands held
Over flames turn calluses into Pentecosts.
Construction litter burns; steel joists unweld,
Weakened through rust and like trees are felled
Into brickdust. Here, pigeon bones ride,
Unfeathered, in gritscape falling
The way some moons avoid tethering the tide.
So young, their heads bob an old man's nodding,
Their discovered deaths at once dissolving
When, finally, workboots loosen to walk
And, kicking, construct a catafalque.