Yet Another Pace Station

A keepsake from the butcher’s market, tolling,
down the flood of stars like an indispensable
explanation, untold, under lead and honey
where the feast does drive aside for fragility,
struck anchors, and film mast cornermen.

An old apricot sundae like leaf bugs in
hotels pillows, never in your trunk, so
cemented in the innocent neighbor stall,
bottles crashed against sidewalks, now
pretending to talk, but are only ice stems.

Arrow storks that leave the rooms, eager
to dispense written pale, stealing quarters –
deck plate hands do not give witness to or
easily admit to being wrong; patrolling the
new station for constraints on sleeping Earth.

In the far-near future we will see weddings atop
frigid stock boundaries and crying detours,
maps where delinquency helps temples at bay,
speaking with light, communication the source
of harvest wells and window crest dry figures;
under the certainty of won-patron free texts
and living through the roughest-cut demands.