Yes, he says—marble flesh taken
aggressively past the hard knock
expresses itself softly, words
laid in lines exposing open
wounds explicitly, off talking
of times when everyone heard

                    what the alley’s burnt asphalt heard,
back when his yearning had taken
him past the tracks. What good’s talking
men out of what they want? They knock
in all doors closed to them, open
mouths, and fume; malodorous words

                    subdue blocks boots cannot move. Words
construct formulæ, untruths heard
by sculptors; stoned chemists open
workshops after dark—mistaken
muses summoned to concoct knock
on their loading dock doors, talking

                    smack—after artifice, talking
to his maker, he offers words
instead, paying for his first knock
with affirmative currency heard
’round the neighbourhood. Taken
out back, hammers bewitch; open

                    him the way dancers’ legs open:
glamorous, scissoring, talking
with their broken bodies, taken
roughly like head given when words
are not enough. Following heard
shadowing his goose-steps, they knock

                    him out, a skulptor-doktor knock
sent to quarry his skull open.
Surgery queries what’s unheard,
shaving from us sick thoughts talking
up our death with unpolished words;
shaking off and out oaths taken

                    afterwards. Crushed patience taken
          by pupils’ æthered eyes, vile words
                    carve from silent smiles lust’s talking.