There is a tauted number on the stirring, bespoke holiday

tree limb whims through orphaned pearls like prayers
for bayonets and Soft Grove St. organizing
and did we not hear a whisper,
soft and quiet as it was a certain voice
in the middle of the eclipsed weight drowning
past oppression and around the necks of the disparaged
clowns, receptacles, violent restoration of mother glue worms;
totalitarianism paths like aspirating whales at the dentist
gleaming forth those orphaned pearls, where the waste does flicker,
but not without unique revenge and misplaced plaques
showering dressed and hesitant like glass sweat
at the mercy of cordial horns, blowing across the personal alley,
potent, and a manul sky-scraping rattle-horn taken abreast
like broken suns dancing at the wedding and paralyzing the guest list
so that only Branch pane siblings enter and the morning creases down