Untitled Ancients

I can separate, belatedly,
the angels from the aliens
but I do not know, quite familiar,
which I would rather
congregate with, steaming,
Cat Power decrees,
“nothing in return”
as hacienda dresses bleach vacant
and retire, returning only
for a second helping of milk-dust
and scorched plantation lilies,
a swollen demarcation
like a trail-marked bouquet
blushes with solemn victory
across ancient grass and feather-tails
that misfire onto subsequent, pressured
tires at the fire station, this one,
for doula patronage tests, esteemed
and milk-siren florid passageways
for Her absence, now too obvious
to ignore, too near not to see clear
but I have found Her in the night
apart from the memory of my dreams
not to see near ancient grass spiders
speaking to each other frivolously
the fever has come and gone
and now only toiled patterns remain