The windows of a page

Stealth fighter with weakened force fields
Intended to keep the gremlins crawling all over my body at bay
Stealth fighter with an open mouth, speaking too soon
About the ramifications and the adjudications of an external transfer
And the remote possibility of life as a current against the wind

You have no right for blasphemous applause
No ring wedding you to the forefront of the dismissal of iron saints
You are not an aperture, singing your howling metremony
Like fire and hydrogen and abundant chemicals to your cause
And just what do you proclaim? It is not certain.
Nor are you a fountain to the dust riddled curtains of social cohesion.

So just what do you proclaim? That you are the tired servant? Tenured?
There is no alimony between you and I to determine such a laboring bond.
Would you pay me for my secret sentient yearly equation of passing lips
And stationed actuary like a pheasant cycle of ten plays for a city imposed
Disposed no longer, but brought to the forefront of your diametric imagination

No, I have no integration of pride to see such a mission to fruition
No blue tit in your branches assailing your quiet morning
I am not a grateful passenger howling between your scattered joys
Like ceiling wind to a poised significant moment that you or I will not address
There is no passenger here. He is not true. He will not see the day like stubborn ashes
Smearing on the ground from yesterday’s news. He is a lost grocery list,
Wrapped in the pocket of your favorite overcoat and reluctantly stowed away