Free Entry 2, Week 3

I walk the wisteria brick of Pennhurst School
and smell the smoky air for the pink dentist chair
where inmate-students lost their meat-crunchings.
Smog only resides in the cracks of bartered bricks
between the walls of painted faces and blinking
lights, where filmy spider skins dangle finally.
"No such thing as growth," they said, while bumps
and creaks calligraph red streaks against their irises
whose final muddy knoll marks millions of spiny,
smoky stackhouses in the otherwise dark hallway.
I find the spindle where my mother rang her wool
like a pianist might twinge a dusty corner harp;
no blood from a dainty finger against the tip
and no fingerprints in the fourteen layers of dust:
skin flakes and mold against settled, dry air
in the quiet room with the upturned leather desks.