Closed off in clotted avenues crunched up math stick figures of flightless fancy – those are the lost slung on top of Detroit Street. The alleys call over the realist walking bandaged. Somewhere his dealer exalts and flaunts his haunted treasures. It’s a quiet night on Detroit Street. All there is is a night to hold together the fabric of what and where. Surly and tense, the pain swallows the prisoner.