Where are the conscientious objectors in this free form body of services?

the word “where” can be interpreted as an unfettered soul
where does that leave the word “at” at, whispered Cat Clyde,
touring beside the radio bus on Helm St. like a locust partially strained
meters from the stillness, from the narrow bundle, startling a heart
like parted fiscal trailways, closer than segments of thought
each could not exist without being connected to the last

just where do these elective souls go? conscientious objectors
by legal terms, but soldiers still in name, pardoning their paths
like blazing turtle doves in pain, scratching the surface of the new
planet – where will “at” be at under a romanced entryway, cosmetic
damage at worst, with their loss, with their removal, where
the “where” is at; the central thesis, the alleyway of proper thought
Cat Clyde evokes Lead Belly, “tear the system down,” like prayer
songs that did not deny the transgressions of one individual on a path