when the White House asked to interpret my coalesced dream payments

Down among the days, a breathing mask and the stolen solicitor’s Branch
turning to the appointment maker, the fawns are partial days, the thoughts are accordions
with misplaced tea leaves wrapped in congenital likening posts that fit coordinating
matches that with polite sticks do not meet-the-people or tread on birds unannounced
until the appointment maker measures my coat and sends me on my way, igniting laughter in Concord

“Did you have a pleasant task,” God asks
She is impeding my memory of the night by the fire of absolutes
“Do I have to tell you about the town with two men that fought for misplaced jewelry?”
God closes her eyes and pretends not to meet mine, like she is now sad for me
“One day you will find your own,” She stated, and the turned to allow
to make all the mistakes that life has made available, just a dung fly on the bark of a tree
this is where the ritualistic people meet, too remorseful to take a day away from parting relay
a mock up of the droning sound of air in the space between villages and aim to correct it

Next week the appointment maker will pardon the dark
lifting the treason of vacuuming repetition
“Do I mention this in class?” the appointment maker wonders
having caught the first illness of misunderstanding
and destroyed art for the sake of ego
radiating in the gold of holistic co-pays
capitalism misinterpreting illness all along