Skipping the Plumb Bow

Not to be deceived, there are shaken juries to consider,
like taking weathered journals to the utmost forepole
of a sentimental wave approaching the winds of eastern
placated cylinder stashes of emotive temperature – released
stalwart tray-lines like a proven sea in the struggle.

Miscalculations narrow in the esteem of shipping lanes,
whether cornered or clustered, here they all make this
the last forethought for tired journals and lost sliden
windows, betrayed gusts of malfeasant erosion for the
tapered mood enhancers of the stately American dollar.

You can be just as forgiving, she said, as he put on
his Goodman’s hat and headed out for the aperture
of the morning, brave and confident, not concerned
about the railway coastlines or the roe shipping docks
that allows the shaken juries to consider, knowingly.

The commercial edict of second weight insiders,
is skipping the plumb bow like a pause before
the praise, or a washroom, that has never known
terror, or the Baal plates at the dinner table,
spoken for evening gloves against the sycamore,
and the ashtrays of morning’s golden rush to the
regiment of stationed malfeasance for the bow’s defeat.