Street Sweepers and Play-doh Artillery

along the brine veins of a habitual hotel
where grace is long and the olfactory senses blind
like a perfectly portioned cup of wise civilians
motor-pooling to the crime where aghast angels pray
there were dually divined macroscopic displays of rendered fire
meant for the elbows of tired and passive Saint’s mutual
figuring out the premise is not the entry point, but the mantle
and made to stack like puppets near the long wishing patron lake