The dark market

The market has no lights
Lined stalls darkle
Lamp black against charcoal
Blind patrons bump and stumble
Braille reading whares and hands.
This is good business
A nudge lifts a wallet from a pocket
A stolen fraud flogged to a judgeless mouth
Some item lifted, broken, returned.
Blink, the black, black moonless gallery
The footfalls, low ceilings, the ringing alarms.
What will sense deprived customers
Leave carrying in their pockets and garms?
What will be left on the stalls?
The electrician came
He too felt the conflict of hands upon wires
The grasping and wrestle in the dark
Insensate senses without pedagogi
And did the globe light?
The pins and spots, tricolor, slashes and dots
Nerve endings euthanised
Lest they describe what the hands are holding
The market is still dark
Patrons leave petrified
Feeling their pockets
Like Schodinger's trap.