The Book of the Second Servant

There are trees washing the alleys
They have no perspective to know they are alleys
There are no boys to taunt this servant
Or placid driftways across the alley from which to deter
The only magnificent prospect of dire natural need
Like a tornado in the ashtray of spiraling control
And vapid self-illusory petitions that spare mackerel
In the sawdust of perspiring plants and sold golden rushes
A plan along the fabricated space of Townsend
Demographics and sparingly using the tumultuous freezes and fixes
Of gender equations and cold turkey turnouts
Like a dolphin in a sea of oil that does not stand
Or know the way out of the water
Too soon and too narrow to be spared a lonely old man
Like a tunic swearer dotted line malfeasance for thirteen
Tattering tales that do not conceive air into his lungs
Or brush past the open filter of saturated dust calling with portend nature
And singing stencil eclipsing boundaries that did not tell me there was no passion
Or eloquence to his motion or his farm of memories

That dance like carpets on the roadways and fabricated corners
Of self-loved truths that makes them all feel better now that the bar is lower
To be a surprise candidate for a moral soul, now, yes, now they live
Like there was always an absence present, like they always knew
The fight was fixed, only now do they say they see which is the light
And which is the mushroom on her face, in her trace, on the camping gear
Like pretentious glory of founding fathers and her children
The proudest of them all.