Constructs built in talking basins

The train to enlightenment is frail
and limping, not unlike a scorched
teapot along the manner of yesterday’s
tribe; stealing, venting, backhanding,
holding sacred ruins hostage
just to assure a few more wives.

They are dark taverns, that enlighten.
They pour exhaust fumes down
rented ceilings and collect the cooking fat
for writing poems. The path to enlightenment
is not unlike an estranged bride
and only she knows the ballad to sing,
how to perform the hidden dance,
and, now, who to share that with.

Constructs built in talking basins
with weather and joy and measures
of latches that protrude from the myth
of settled developments by the journey of sands.