4 a.m. Token Economy

For strangers not meant to be seen in sobriety
or tipped sharply under harvest quakes
we have longed to be broken mirrors, with a shy stern sky,
to each other like pheasant crossings, testimonial,
and gatherings of favorite heliocentric causality

Across the moon and the faces of docent memories
no more pleasant than a Canadian pushcart
lift of rattling chain store insiders, working moms
and smoking waitresses never on break, but relieved
with love birds flying apart and knowing, piercingly,
the difference between an approaching solution
and a disappearing act in lost sands with tempered journals

It is that which is no more that sounds the romantic helo-plane
felt in the heat of the shade of octave tree trimmings in the rain
with a trusting prison you long to meet through your mystic features
where love becomes only a fostered patrimony seat in the lighthouse

Warm and shy-stemmed early music with moral majority fecundation
like doors and fire exits that meet the center of the station on grass
curtains with rays of dormant light that ignite the salutary strumming
willful presence despite strong feelings of the contrary desk-master
and he has his jewels, waiting for you if you complete the task faster