The epiphany of splanchnic seasons of gratitude and grace

there were markets near the dung mal-factories
stolen dreams from time, capital, and the old guard strong man
angry with incitement as a challenge to authority
like the cajolery of fruit and nimbles of Oliver grass
too close to approach the patriarchal sunken garden
like a precursor to his thoughts that did not blind me
they kept us certain only by what they did wrong
immobilized by the spirit of punctuality and charm
there were no call signs from the mistaken advance of alarms
come ring bells, now to mercy, now across the longitudinal traceway that is more than meek
there sailors learn for certain which road not to follow, and the dirt of father slim
broken on an angel’s shoes, that he left at the diner, only for you to explore the imploded percussion