eyot channels dancing on cigars and salads

sutures in the morning, stained, delicate somatic features
conjured like myths on the grass curtains of absent appraisal
for demi-legions that foster milking hooves with delicate lignite stature
seemingly quiet on the golden rush of tell-tale instigation, galvanic
dependent territory like old augmented fragments of jewel-crested statins

we were once voyagers in the small town outside the four gates like the rush of old gods
we were trained to see around corners, bleeding passengers, knowing which house
this one or that one left food at the door, not enough for all of us, no sweets or bread
but just enough to survive the moon-haven nightlife like wild concourse and lily stems
and fledgling-led disposable flags for the attire of the soft imaginary teeth we paid for

we pledged our loyalties to the night to see what circadian rhythms might usurp
taunting alleys like mridangam horses and eyot channels dancing on cigars and salads
left wondering if the stationer against the worshipers of the gods of Baal had already returned
Elijah, in his rented chariot, no longer interested in talking to me about salads or seasoning
seeing I had left where I was given a name by Michael and now see my God as a Black woman
never written about, no source material, not evident, and no proclaiming darlings on a map