Steady Imposition with Open Habitual Manner and Jeer

your grace was not flanked by Michael, or donkeys on the front door-matched path to Russia
you did not give me hives or a broken ankle, just lost dreams that retreat no more
the steadied pasture of this worldly focus is not a grape for culling, or a sand flower
meant for infinite repose, it is the dressing of her stalks in the morning, at last in unison
between the parks and the beaches, the laughing moon and to regretful sunstorms
trailing us until we arrive to someone we cannot relate to and dare to allow them to
request any favor from us, nested in your needling work by the tossed light, and matched
where old foragers comb the sanitary missions for tulips and carpet vines, mesmerized
like the attended fools we are, taken apart by the construct of The greater will, and then
settled into a home that marks no name but the earth beneath it, and the gambled generations
intrinsic for growing children lost in horseshoes that were not delicate, but were affirming
coining endless ambassadors of rhythm for crops well donned for empty Persian pockets