a man leans in the doorway of his not-home
waiting to be photographed from a passing car
by a man who is dreaming of trespassing
and resurrecting the last bricks
from every demolished school [dwelling] church
he ever entered or abandoned himself in/to
before he left Detroit/this city
Rivera painted an infant huddled
in the bulb of a plant, a mother
hoarding apples in her circled arms
a harvest, a plenty
Jewelry * Loans * Cash Fast—
a billboard with a diamond
ring for every finger
and on the walls, so many hands
working the line/turning the cranks
(holy rollers) grasping rocks
while we look on
it don’t exist, says the plywood
door (attended to, cracked open)
at Bill’s Blue Star Disco Lounge,
burned down so the sky shines
through the not-roof on/to Michigan Avenue
the whole road gap-toothed, boarded up
and then Woodward, where the parking
attendant swears he’ll stay outside the frame
in the lot with the cars till the game lets out