Foreknown Illusory Object Language Chains

I do not hear your transient hips
subject to the tall, tall saints
where withal joint and climbing limbs
like sanctified smarter courses, unattended
as tall as his voice, waiting
as perfect as his writing, told
too soon, nothing remains but autocracy
and shame windows on black marble
carpets with curled curtains of flesh
and homesteaders, getting sick from illusions,
from fear of tainted ceiling windows and
extra-climate rangers on farmhouse rules
shattered, stunted, and certain

Letting the dowry subject to lost
limbs and troubadours betraying you
in the field between the hills, a brother
in the rush gathered away like a salesman
on fire in the brush, breaking down the last
curtain in the courtroom of obsolete pleasure,
so old it does not pretend to be let into the fire
of cost-savings rhetoric that practices darker
nonsense in your brother’s house, just for
the entertainment of the tall, tall saint
crimson with good fortune, never standing
in the mansion of your heart, not in favor
of tomorrow or siloed participants of
gravel chair empires with sold off
seats for numbered kings and kicking
rumpuses like doorway frames of the heart