FROM THE FACTORY.

The developers & realtors
          are out for max prof
          (no news there).
The shiny prospectus puts
          – Your Name Here –
          in the picture:
reclining in late Empire luxury,
          up to your armpits
          in bubbles,
you are the envy of your ultimate
          self. The Bow River
          Condo Complex
catches a lick of albino sunlight:
          tissue-paper dreams
          now flares
against a darkened future.
          Shareholders get singed:
          the insured,
cash-on-the-nailed, get lump
          sums: what's subtracted
          is the discrete
ingathered wealth of a lifetime's
          travel & gift mementi,
          each piece fleshed
by its own story. The underwriters do –
          & the insured, post-facto,
          don't – overdetermine
the value of coinage. No cornerstone can
          save a fire-wracked frame:
          only flame-language,
bloodred in its newness on ashen lips,
          can build on the base exchange –
          breath for breath.