From the Fishouse

I

The TB hospital was locked up
years ago, but quarantine remains

advised and sometimes lobotomy,
though no one speaks of it

outside certain circles.
What can be done with so much

real estate—all the tiny rooms?
Who would like to haunt

the floors with whatever lurks
in the medicine closet,

long-emptied of laudanum
and the speculum used

in collapsing lungs—
what hagridden men and women?

II

I thought there were stars
painted on the cinema ceiling

but there were only silver bolts,
machine-made and sufficient.

The movie was about Stockholm Syndrome,
though not explicit like the scene

when she kicks his eye out
with her pastel pump. Lock the doors

from the outside for best effect.
Do doctors count? Or anesthesiologists?

If you could say, I fell
for the one administering narcotics.

You can get narcotics in the bathrooms
of certain bars, but I wouldn't recommend it.

Once I dropped my pill on a stall floor,
but it must be taken in order.

III

Water doesn't always mean exit,
can flow because of slant

and puddle, stagnant—
and not at all what you were after.

The last of the leads, but hurry, child;
you're not the only one down here.

Your palm along the stones—
leave blood in lieu of crumbs.

It's easier to try and live
when something's after you.