Lucie Horsch Sits Too Silent Among the Maple Pears

an instrument of stolen rocks to make comets
the Ferengi rule to “whisper your way to success”
albeit minor dinosaurs dance around your feet
in perfect trilithon roundtable dissenting from the harness
the smoking Caesar under the rung of septentrion
folding chairs and domesticated bears like diesel sandwiches

resting in the grove of unopinionated trucks in the doorway
of St. Sophia and western delicate stories of extremes
made to entreat the weathered elder into a false hope
all for the cause, for the weathered cause, like fire diamonds
and sophistry that relaxed with the attending of the saints
where human suffering did dwell

and mark our exploits
like human trees
like the asphalt tressels
of our neighbors’s dreams
and counter-revolutionary aspects
of cornered mice in a dozen dialects

a crowning achievement in the wasteland of our common retribution
frowning unexpectedly where we did not have the patience for tomorrow

a nineteenth century bird of prey
stumbles at your doorstep
forgetting the solitary wasteland
of placid survival and tormented
journeys of acquiescent stationary
musk-like riddled patterns of shapeless trust
like a newsstand and April heights
bellowing in the morning
like rotting sand in the cornerpiece
like torrid sacred arrivals of defeating cowskin
and metre obsolescent appraisals

waiting until tomorrow when we deliver our patience report of gathered roughcast objectivist tires