on a pavement like an ice master, like a gazehound,
to track without scent

through a valley of ghouls
the street lamps’ neon behind me.

When I run out of shock,
to arrange, as it is there, the brutal planks
of another’s cult--
the layers of shellack--

the alcoholic tricked
by an ambidextrous clock,

the man on the corner
selling peaches in the dark.

Taj Jackson