you cannot use God as a refuge from a broken canopy

minor Caesar roasts like ambient dogs of tender fair and joy
blessure hosts like fever hind legs squatting in short tense
“there are things you do not need to know right now
get down from here, you broken record, you solo dance
where concerts go to suffocate sleepily and bashfully”

“where line dances commute like fine Irish dotting mothers
finish lines are not abandoning the remote change
for an opportune mind of hallucinating grateful goat mother
illusive genetic consummate materialism, donning” rendering
masks of secret intentions of sweet deliveries with breakfast….

holding to life all the tried tragedies like an intrusive brave farmer
beating bearing red hearts where there were masks to cover
the blood speaking from the ceiling under savory fungi and roots,

here she comes she finally roasts the Caesar in the ceiling
of our minds where we greet the burning with blessure and joy..
now enhancing having tired of grass root schisms
we will take the shredded symbols of warm weather friends
for depth and how we engage them, we eat them, we eat them,
now that the holiday has come, now that the warm season
we feared has reversed and the calming sound can return
with pitch perfect quiet and a soothing altitude alarm for her farm