There is no codeography among strangers

Last step in the plumb line questionnaire, removed from the waging whale

Too distilled for proper apple disheveled attire loose like an ash tiger on Wednesday
Like lake whistle-blows on tyrant trucks and measured toiletries dropped in the hotel sink
Dating grocery store endcaps with weathered stolen gaslights under the point of menstruation
Drinking to survive the myth among a dozen offers of a country for sale half-off indefinitely

When Cane came home for stolen sandwiches and garden rakes under the canopy of stirring cries
Of martyred cars under driveway tailpipes and snowbound lectures for retired saints like laundry
Stolen, sullen, and abrasive – too dark now to be captured under the licensing of forks and fiddles

Too distracted under the withered anthems of another lost national ghost awaiting self-realization

She will tailor her work to be perforated tonight
reminiscent of the coffee-wave ceiling tiles he cuts in the mornings