Border Rushes on Stall-wick Proposals

These fingers have seen tomorrow’s enchanted naked oleiferous ceremony
Like a perturbed sandquake mirrored on the pillow landing mass fountains
A shut-in prophesying allocations for carpet dreams like sentinel frosted
Well-bearing cool wetgrass songs of laying saints, each with a dozen pupils
All having run for better days, however temporary that may be

The Taiping Rebellion on marching Sunday masks, each for their own sorted
Magnification of stern rolling power under the boot of stealing data for the dream
A tossed egg pie centered on 42nd Street canned laughter, like cookouts seeing
The meaning from within, from borrowed closed accounts where they do not pray
Custom and causality beekeepers like satisfaction on a two-day pleasure cruise

And did I see her escape faulting on her mortgage, no, but I did see the stranger
Climbing through the concealed window timing like grapes in the salty mines
Forever climbing for her kink and trauma inducing touch that stays with you,
For years predisposed to no longer being able to be touched, I will die younger
Now, dying alone, but apart from her and happy that I found my solitary hold