God, please do not create the night

I used to find myself an ocean away, walking onto curtains with grief-bidden coin purses
like an antelope on Martian soil, there was no defeating the alchemy of resilient body-cams
like a locust of an eaten street we weighed the difference and sadly attempted to right the course
like pouring honor over our meat as though time tested archives demanded it, from our soil,
from our patriotic sun dishes trapped in captured cat houses all along the dime of mercurial style,
waking too many trumpets that trampled down south off between the amperage and stolid hallways
now too many soldiers cave to their equipped boots never whistled from the mines of exploitative-
reason, how howl where Adrienne fronts of cold water hurricanes split the ransom for aloof neighbors
please say and, God, do not create the night, do not allow us a trespass into the vacancy of our minds,
do not say, “pass along to the going anchor,” like a dressed up still crowned comfort mule, passing
grazing all adroit thumbprints, do not lead my soul to a lightless room of delicately fallen treeposts,
please do not be so certain as to leave me without a shinned on measure to atrophy while knowing it,
knowing what it is, we were never meant to be beseeching storm dwellers like some angry faucet