beaten by the allegory of saints and streets

here the fish market hides more than men
it comes at you with the fist of a blizzard
sailing past darkened streets now naked
posed with a warrant collected by God

to mimic the cry of the fallen, too soon,
too vast, here a rainbow of cracked defeat
my face feels the journey of the hours
the temple basin in the crooked olive

like misunderstood tractor weeds dancing
it is good to be rich under any other terms
but here at the end, checking in the river,
your tasks are lightening strikes bells certain

where weather-mingled staff arrives brightly
and gives no share of going to the hill mule
the rubber in chains, like a fever clutch,
the last raised body from underground daunted

the last pasture to overturn the waste of triage
being a jerk for the sound of the rhythm
please indicate which bones to repair
and the fruit of the last smoldering journey
so that we can smuggle the lost doorway
home and away for the holidays
you have rested your coins today