God does not stand with you, but is untied to your fragrant silhouette

as many as the tides break evenly upon the tossed shore
there is a pattern of brokered smiles, chiming and deciding
like relegated distraught wives on the moonscape of stolen Earth
here we rustle with the waves of chores and song, rattled like bait
burying our notebooks for better verse as a pattern of outcome
seats that do not pretend or rise to the occasion

there are broken starts on the first occasion where songs strung empty
do not share a bracelet with a skilled journey like light to sand, or moisture
to feet, where the window softens and the gentle prose goes to lie in defeat
dressings and cosmic doorways laughing and the passerines white singing
here is how God sees your attempt to reach Her/Him/Them, like a taken tool
that did not belong to you, either side, to score the opposite of what was expected

seats that do not pretend to rise to the occasion, claiming to write home forever,
wrestled in that pardoned stare, we will arrive under God’s protection, while the Old Guard
sits feeble under artificial satellites and rowel nibs from the sky like patriot farmers marring
the filler soil of missile trees that did not have to wait or shelter the staunch meting
of old gold rattling where reasons did capture the pregnant fashion parade,
under the desolate morning pitch white light, that neither figure of the acquaintance did see