Among the cement gray
the chrome pipes spitting black
inserting themselves through the walls
joints bolted in perfect rows
the vent’s grilles coated in
gray fur of dust while
in the depths of cubical darkness
the ducts are rehearsing
their mosquito frequencies
circling, circling
intravenous tubes
coming from the ceiling
the escalator stairs moving
the transparent isolation curtains
and insulation bandages
ward, ward, ward
wrapped in a thin, hot,
membrane of wet air
a tropical mummy
the grain of linen
glued to back
the rats are squeaking
behind the manicured hedge
overhead abstract mold paintings
the walls sweat beneath the humid sun
slick with moisture,
fractured neon flickering
everywhere the city releases its vapor
thick with the odor of sour
and something gathering
Stacking.
It’s stacking.