A compass to England in wasted plaster weddings

Mocking the cotton webs like satisfied calculations of a dirt weasel
redeemed on parts uncertain with parts of curtains washed by hand,
swabs away from inhibition, sways in a dusty sabot moon now dank,
untroubled joystick start with the risen dead asking first the question,
what tailor they use in the kingdom of skin measurements, begging,

Globeflower dressings like scattered cabana filled procurement,
stocked with August mornings; oh, how to send lost journals,
a compass to England as if they could speak for afterthoughts,
unleashed in the West alone and rested here rusted and beside
the Channel going to waste on the roadside chrysalis of battle,

Cold upon the newsstand of old memorized crying doctored
hosts standard tunes where no one can be conjured outside
new packaging a compassing to England on a morning now
with a lack of oxygen or field weathered exposure with pills
like the stigmatized light in the symptoms en bloc for journeys

If I could only send the letter I meant to send to the horns of the
trigonometry of weather and frightened story-maps like warm
Sunday Ground-Tyrants, sailings towards to the cutoff curtains
where you hid your upset soulmate like a cigarette in the haste
of portrait farms in the darling of wasted plaster weddings.