This stanza is sunken

Property and lost wages
on a bet about federations
in forms of gas and four fires
and stoves without iron

An hepatic Sophocles
with mustard on his collar
and two doves at his ankles

For long lost bets
and iron water in the air
of might and tired stalwarts

Stolen for angels on Wednesday
savored like a forgotten regret
mended like a warm tossed crowd

Statues and silhouettes with tied reeds
like a tall box for fused stones

Feelings into knots for closed waters
stealing magnets and dull coins

the only event that mattered