Docile Forms and Hammers for Guild Manners

Docile farms
And hammers for guild manners
So sublime under the eye dropper
Of God, whose quest
For endurance steals the weight
Of rest and rowboats lonely nest

Docile forms
And spray paint for seasoned complainers
Do not, that do not, say or think
In persuaded difference, as Stuart Hall
Quotes dreaming of the Atlantic
And send us into a collaborative engine
Of organized and orchestrated
Untimely discourse

Forms of farms
And waste containers with appetites for neonicotinoids
So to lay in season for adequate rest
For adequate rabbits’s nest
Where they do not worry

The circumference of saints
Where the lost hammers are
Persuaded to retake the household
Journeys and seasons of attire
Remind waste and brittle farm tattles
Like smokestack inclusion
To the bitter gift of dreams

Farms of forms
Where brittle eggs are birthed
By my brother, my sister, in heaven
That does not tattle or date on
Weekends, piercing into the geographies
Of the living, the persuaded dreams
And stained with plantation lilies
Inked in the rain of their own disappointment
Where the middle class
Lost lasers for dreams

Docile farms and hammers
For guild manes, collective entry
So straight and so tall
Metered to end as a percussion of warning
Let out its life on the steel pole of God.