a triumvirate eight days from alaylesse flint matches, Dallas scorned

“there are carpets in Dallas that haven’t been scrubbed in eight days,”
speaks the One who passed in the morning dreams like figures in the park,
disturbed, but not that ancient, though grass slippers did not set beside Him
nor to the gravel peach upon eucalyptus trees humble and crying alone

“the saw-like pattern on the wooden horsemen took a drift” from the unincorporated river
stalling and forgetting, always blind spots within reach, “alaylesse” doctoral Middle English
alliances, plural in form, and global in numbers, yet ceasing and releasing, the fettered,
romantic disillusion of historically speaking spreading crows of alliance, tread out abound

“is that what alaylesse means,” She asks me, “is that what I meant, or what you concluded?” promised
deduction from a few fragments of reason, total and seemingly unobscure, no, but pursue your own
indignation of cornfields on the march, meeting their way towards Dallas where the workers strike
from currency, from elatedness, from good morning caroling like weathered plastic groves spiking in
the park of triumvirate affairs dwelling on castings and meteorological signs that did not signal
authority or raspy noses gathering flint matches in the dark of cosmic wheels and a settled eight days