The operator, The agitator, (Folding Hands)

There is a chatty raft where once two towns met.
They spoke for hours about plumage, ramage,
recapitulation of latent images.
Rappel beasts greet ‘Old Women’ with
shrieks and cries and mutter unconcerned.

They delve into pyrrhic tissues, parched purses,
contrarian humility, shrieks and cries for
dominant gloss in dredge and dewlap tidings
asking rightly hybrid functions; mediators
Marion, and Marie.

Marion loves property, Marie obligation.
Somehow they find the time to take place
everywhere at the same time. Monroe
was the father from several generations. He
puts masks in the window but closes the curtains
to shield the warmth of renovated expectation,
insipid jubilance for lesser heroes, a
fixed station for lower beliefs. “This
town restricts itself,” shrieks
Marion. “Only to honor a foundation with
arms like diamond cut stuffing,” cries Marie.

Monroe is buried with folded hands in an
armored car. With insurgents under
its wheels intact and ingratiated.
A place called home. A surmounted innocence.
Statice belief. Marion calls Marie compelled.