lampposts and sheets of rain

He/She/They does not lie,
not into my ear or equation of sound,
counter-irons my thoughts with shim-rays,
God posits into this lightening rain turned,
where will we find home if not together?
the changeover of the moon’s new instrument
does not passively demonstrate robbed tires,
just this champ of northern proposal,
in the magnified lights of weather shortages
cooking upwards where the irons
did lie on central ground,
we are Munich of South New York
traveled on concourse gravel shards
braced to lift up trailers and pictures of family,
free like a memorized tree rotted on her shoulder
tuning to sailored tragic nights in temple glass
on docks worth millions by the day or evening
lambasted on my forgotten bed,
we tailor to this song we drew
we ache in present thoughts
we are ranchers mistaking the trash,
an inert God’s trembling
onto this frozen coast