After Artshwager’s Destruction III
Adam Vines

The penthouse suite
buckles like a racehorse’s knee,

the herringbone stitching
from the fourteenth floor to lobby
busting loose from the first

few blasts. Drapes
loiter in windows.

The grand entrance
bloats with cauliflower curds.

The middle floors’
maw turns inside out,

exposing horns of plenty
which spill Chinese dragons,
heads down, nostrils flared.

Shards of black acrylic
linger on the Celotex

like flakes of dark chocolate
or razor-shaved truffles
or petals of coal.

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