The trust I have in the foundational stuff of life
          is comparable to my distrust of the planning rules
and regs adhered to by our flat, or of our flat’s kind
          providers, its construction, foundations, its pipes fit
purposefully to burst. The building will fill, surely
          from the basement, like the opposite of a rainstick –
soundless, aside from your wrist’s neat pulse like
          silverfish flicked softly from a bathtub – upward,
till our neighbours are all flotsam, their paintings fucked
          yet saveable if using this technique in restoration
whereby patches of sloughed paint are not replaced
          by approximations but with a thousand finely coloured
lines, which read as neutral, so that a Christ once drowned
          in the Florence flood can look whole again if we squint.