Pearl Falcons over a Bazaar

elm trees in a silent park
staring no ways like grateful earning
lifting noses into sand curtains, in darkness
were no patronage can sooth a brittled retirement

fomenting stereo sidetrack misgivings
never around to see the sun skip its docile engine compartment
lucifugous speech in the minds of the tokenistic culture
jewel trusted lament, like an engraving on an ashtray

never fibbed in a calaboose archway like eyes between temples
costing nothing in return for the seismic wave or the scordatura of Sunday
where nothing dressed in plastic and nothing wore homemade skins
just a pearl in the sink dropping lower and lower until there was no bazaar