wheat

we have sequestered songs of defeat into holding cells
like fragments of the vine, they step or stand out of order
hoping for a longer day in which the rich might triumph
and the folding wheat might snap in the noon sun
unlike the other rebels, tossed, clarified, and solicited
we know the battering ram was dulled to a soft projectile
where mother hen parts on their first robbed apartment
and the staples of morning arrives free at your door
there are stolid fingers of glass identical to severed chairs
rummaging, counting, solidifying, grass curtains underneath
tropic-sated anxieties and parsing weights of a loud cicurated
person on foot, trained, and in these dammed vessels, indulgent,
we lock indifference like shuffled papers not knowing reproach
or tolerance – no more than the diaspora of moonlight interposed