misleading, concealed frostbite and branches of bitter smoke

there was a station, down by the river, that collapsed
under the weight of the beds of tires and off-ramp vehicles
all screaming for Jesus from their dashboard pans like smoke
that would run or become bitter in the rage of a tear,
but there stood Anslow, relishing in his first command
behind the steel girdled tank of a description for a girlfriend,
riddled, not guided by, turquoise voices of hollowed moons
and random belted rashes and heaves, caught on the branches
below the off-ramp vehicles and bars in the dark stars of Tennessee

no forest or building or collapsed entryway guilt can find the science
to undertake the silt and moon glow of the ashes of a Tennessee September,
not after these lies have escaped parades of truth from all vectors
from all friendships or duly appointed mayors of fleecetown
upon the riverbeds of smoke raving at the bitter sound locked into the branches
dare not, she tells Anslow, ask me where that smoke is coming from
just let me think of you and in the cold range of bitter ponds and sold-out Founder meetings