right hand pointing

The brick is an enemy of the bohemian,

foe of drift

foe of billow.

 

Its blush begins in disorder,

with the discomfit that seizes it

 

when the brick sits solitaire

without purpose

in a yard, on a truck bed.

 

It becomes a weapon then,

a projectile of clumsy corners.

 

In dreams a single brick

stands for abandon,

an unwanted weight

 

defined by the closest hand,

 

one to brace the window frames,

one to smash the windows.