The gold apple in the tree, tired and vacant

(in circles around me)

too much sand
in the way of inadvertent cameos
like stall walk insiders

bleeding out on market street
She says She does not want that for me
but I hope She is wrong
I do not wish to be inadvertent
like poetry dismissed in April fires
trees dismissed in stalwart tires

that I seemed one with work to know Her
now that I have learned the two-step
to the secret between the saucers and the night tree
lights are only a small confidence
where vessels are not shipping in the mor’ing

but She repeats the small things
like letting me be attuned the Her voice
and allowing me at the new Banquet of power
where it is I that cannot find the power
in the travailing words
lost, like sands
and forever sorted at a doctor’s door
of ashen-wore frost
and grateful minuscule empires

where a casual acquaintance
for fever-wore frost, now
mor’ings with accented meetings, adjoined
with coffee relatives and
of worker warehouses that bled of matrimony

attuned blatant to the secrets of Her voice
now and forever, lost in sands
“now publish right away
before the forgetting ends
and we start with mercy again”