Lady of Her Belief

We eat from a trough
drinking best of chlorinated waste convected by draining sewage

and live in stalls
crossed in pictures of children, loves we don't hope here,
only ponies to unhook on vacation
when the air isn't a remote aside a star-switch by whose glasses we type
a younger dye of hope on varicose veins.

She looks at a hill,
through the webs of danty window,
above the factory egg that spoiled into the atmosphere last morning,

and seems tall.

My back contorts on portfolio
and, in that pruned biography,
my only way out
to the upper-middle plantation.

We
are a use. Hero pajama pants fall to another one
to take a dream and dilute it
in the puberty of this one market
space.

Her eyes contracted on the same columns of numerical meritocracy,

and
though her skin fizzles
to the follicle under the same filter that moves the wind inside,

it's thought she might be a free instrument

if only in the hill, on top, never tread,
she impregnates
her unconditioned ultimate dream.