When love is faulted and false

a triumphant life is rated one to five stars
between the pop-up ads on your tombstone,
triggered not for being unhealthy, but for stones
already rotting underneath your gasoline caskets,
trailing Oregon with some mirth and aged sharks,
stolen from the expressway where tidal currents
meet cold rivers and proclaim into the microphone,
“We have stopped dreaming here,” and so goes time,
rattled, and watered like crawled wasps where soprano
vents do not know why God fails to seed them,
but the plan to adjudicate the acupuncture sailways
did not meet them with grace, but in turbulent trails,
there did no one dare to bring a scope to see merchants
climbing high on you or I when love was faulted and false