Unguarded Wounds

Will just wedge into the thoughts of the breakcast cot,
cylinder raceways under the White House magician’s stirring tone
styled like grumbling shrouds have grown, here have we swayed –
with indelicate indecision, forever trained and tainted with appeals courts drones
mercenaries killing the cherub in the broad daylight
between ICE and voter esteem, the trembles of God are fraught
and here comes the sailor of the morning, seeking dawn
the bellows of the outcast will be my children, now stomping around and atoned