She makes paint from moldy brick with the flavor
of advertisement and blood and

hair and bits of concrete raised

raised from the floor; she leaves them there
to wait to speak, there’s an offstage rumble

and this time it’s the furnace,

because it’s cold in the basement, even in summer,
and the girl is almost sleeping,

she cannot tell if the cobbles

lying covert beneath the street
have been buried or planted,

she is happy not to know,

as for the cobbles,
who can tell?