A tended modifier of blunge met out ministerium

Upon now the sour grapes or poor forgoing theists
Are wretched seasons comporting themselves out of order
To the wash-cream windows like jubilant sacrilegious seeds
Of tattering compunction with basil and rosemary climbing wheels
Heavily under door-master rains She returns like a pardoned lamb
Upon asphalt smelling bejeweled cow meat for the moment
Of weathered dosages that make some believe that She wants us
To believe, to behave a certain way, no, not too many accept this

A second insists that this is true, but not buried under fragmented windows,
No, not hidden lamps comporting to an ashtray dive, in Her bones
She drives to the afternoon dance like lost children to the choir of rainfall
Besides me She tells me that we are not alone, no, not I, at least,
Not in this moment. She makes me listen to female voices, leaving me
Not leaving me, never having destroyed my presence like a farm on
The railway of metricity under fog lamps and stored butter hazel maps
No, not to this one is there any memorized curtain of dismissal
Under the capital of all planned out defense