In which Dorothea sits behind me flipping the pages of my life

Staggering is her ill-willing gift for God’s staggering dockhand felt temples,
in our souls and in our hands out stretched for each other, but not needing to control,
she does not seem to like me, but makes it clear that it is out of spite, she enjoys it,
because I rejected her first, with the grist and the hammers in the hands of orphans,
no more sunny days, we must be getting close, “temples,” she repeats, and not off hand,
are in our rearview mirror, as we have passed the time to change motives, curated solifluction,
and now must coalesce around a mountain of obscurity and disconcerted chain shift willows,
for it is not the anger of the masses that brings revolution, not anymore, new thinking, new…
the reverberating echo of her voice is an unnatural hapax legomenon pretending not to stare,
flipping pages of magazines of my past, un-distorted, why she needs to judge me, read me,
is unknown and un-welcomed, which only confirms her battle lines against me and haste,
she should not have kissed me, I can never be touched and not be resentful, it went too far