At the festering corner of Boston and Queen <br />The Tasty Chicken House clings through May <br />to its Christmas tinsel, and is not long for this world. <br />Sanctioned colour murals under bubble script tags <br />won't slow the winds of progress. Next door, <br />Wattle and Daub, a law firm of Newfoundlanders <br />or a crafts supply in keeping with the poultry theme, <br />smells weakness, softens its smuggest aspects <br />with miniature jingle bell over the gripey hinge. <br />Knot your scarf . . . comme ça. The Speech Pathologist, <br />just blocks from here, requests we enter through <br />the rear. Uck, ook, echk, esh, eesch, ess. Mushy dentates, <br />audibly aspirant at the front end, he's describing <br />the texture of the tuscan soup I made. Wading into names <br />he'll enter the depletion that refuses names. <br />Lower on Logan, near Eastern, the Weston plant <br />rolls out its bread trucks well past dawn. Rousseau <br />had that bit about brioche in his Confessions a year prior <br />to Marie Antoinette's arrival in France. Luxury <br />bread's now a four-pound cow pat of walnut sourdough <br />that petrifies by Wednesday. What class are we? <br />When did we last love music and not its function <br />as calmative or its causativity? He gets down. <br />Leather strop, lengths of chain. The white sky a light box <br />viewed as gaps between negatives of the inverted city, <br />bike lock, bike lock, first bank in Regent Park, <br />the auratic properties of this chapstick tube, and <br />damp stringy tree-hair peeled from the inner bark. <br />Guy Ben-Ner, from his tree house, said,
