These are the alibis of tailored painters and Naima Bock

the books on the counter were all too damaged to plead to self-protection
like a winter dressed high in the suits and dresses of calamity measured drones
these are towns that market their own pleasures as an alibi for peace and restoration
but the fabrication of the neighbor’s jokes and prods never grew beyond ceremony

there were ill statesmen forming in the dresser drawer like a coffee plantation, so serene
never grasping that you would have robbed that dresser just a few short seasons ago, amiss
still we have never given holiness to the lighter and flatter grounds for the patterned crawl
when we were young and believing in temple factories that never climbed fountain walls

this measure of a picture is a gently stationed projection that she played while singing home
Naima Bock never wanted to hold back, though it is in her character to be humble, she is socio-awe
she weathers expectations from groups, family, friends, musicians, fans, to carve her own sand
like the stated statesmen in the dresser waiting for their moment in the sunshine to yell out sadness
we will never feel the mistake that is in our subconscious holding us back, an inhibited backbeat
it might be true some of us see each other where you summarize our stature like absent wisp-forms