A Picket, a Captain’s Position

The Furnace's libidinous appointment
kept, laborface, a stoking
they make a gasp out of.
Don't let's model it. Sodaheart.
I think now we were never shoulders.
To think how we were never thousands of us,
made not a crack of it, sleepsudden,
crouching thinly, twentied millions of times
and suddenly not a face to lever on.
This perched thing, on this parapet,
one to the coming two. Times twenty.
Is not twenty, not stacked,
nor the newspaper's shirking pronouns.
Decades of the kind of nevermouth
you plant there and insist on.
There is usually an elemental table
set to standard. A mysterious patented bridge
we all have to cross. Peek once
and we’re all upbraided.