Soft sun elephants in minor scales of meter dressing

Assuming it would be a while
I took measures upon your earth bent dust
to borrow from the sky binds of silver paper
dots and smooth conjecture, having enough
of the crossed-green wedding and flute entrapment
to scatter bones on the ground like pearls
in the gutter along the same worldly
sewer lines that house gold rings
and father’s war rifle, like cornerstones
to bus stop Mary, tranquilized and driving
sitting in coffee shops with three-jobs-
waitresses and dollar-an-hour cooks
that will make you the best sandwich
you ever had, no turnips or fields of green
just mild stops upon the atrium

like a pack a dogs that come across
a crying child that had stolen
his father’s car, or worse things
never mentioned in the handbook of friendly skills

laundry lines in the backyard sun
for hanging poultry and broken elephants
casual and dismissed too soon
amend the abandoned lakes
reflecting the fire on the moon
and the temperance in our hearts
this is the last fight

Until He starts talking,
But, instead, She will change the subject
moving through the weeds in stock of forgiveness
and the adamant forgiveness of betrayal in the senses
the adroit magnification of sterling worlds of captured cloud surfaces
like a portrait for Miss Mary, that never stalked me or took my place
my winters were my own, my terpene folders that I ran over
hoping to stake a claim to words hushed forever, lost in tragedy
and originally obscured by the patient days of truth