Where ashes tap a grave’s bell

There are still congenital apricots in the mire
of out woken vocal order of frustrated reefs
like a boiling pot of grime and stickers and gel
poised to hit a bathroom in the next hour

Too late for the nimble, translucent ceiling
broken into Surtr’s iron, craft, and needlework
stitches all attested to where the weekend molds
and the cabbage dotes a priori in front of the league
trembling like an ancient servant in the South Thousand
reading temples for swords where ashes tap a grave’s bell