the road of seeds of tasteless hammers

the trees are tasteless today
or so wagers the dream walking
calling out my name like a psalm,
but not as a loaded word
the socks mock my enthusiasm for blight,
only seeing trim for the trees
and the masks home says who is tasting
like parched honey they scorch their leaders
pretending not to be a hassle
pretending not to be in on the news
for apricot shrugs and titillating hammers
the day is stamped, timed, and allotted
the worst part is we lost the parrot
among the open luggage shutters on the plane