There are houses that grow on ascetic stumbling iron

Where there was once a stall of apricot horses
small and smiling in the corner of celestial blocs,
there was no transgressor more illuminated than time,
no doorway, to marked-pierced wraparound
dogging the persuaded peacetime ocean,
just lifted weights under daunts of asperate conjecture,
meed where no vacuum of saluting migrants go wasping,
just a dusk retrieval and a doctored measured neck,
open to a ghost-like pattern standing behind a lost paltry chime