tosca triage on the surface of the moonlight

stigmal ships sailing into bonnet anchor cables, distilled to the west
a bird with a grey-purple-blue breast and belly and fire wings
a demotive Chiron singing wings to sleep on the asphalt of savory tirtha traps
stringing cans to escape a firing line, tossed and arrested like favored mules
“this time it will be easy,” so said the attendant in the arms of the canary gold mine,
“this time we will be intrusive” like same serpentine wastewater abstraction
holding in time, and a marker to the west covered marching order in defeat