strings, navigate and you are stirring

I will not talk to you right now with your oblique suit firing on all ashen cups
delinquent tyl the ghost of the morning, triumphant only in knocking doorways
where gross negligence lays to an end parade stock in the arbitrary currents
refined radial iron dusk tossed to epuriae napkins with the tyrant’s glow
the story never told of the veteran turned activist who was born and died in a hearse
like a candidate of declining methods with shunted, unserialized ghost guns and Mars
segue champions to escape the impounding lot of yesterday’s chores and excitement
a dormitory of the fragrance of indictment still here too late a season
the indulcation of exposed mercury doting the expulsory line between freedom
and far weights in evaporating glory of trapped parcels and refined stellar dust circles
combustibles of caffeine miracles, left tried in the stow of a train’s waiting nests
where the specter of dialing memories say, “Hello,” and to never retreat at night