"ACT TRICE"

Hot off the presses, the first work of verse I've written since early January. Too early for me to interpret, but you're more than welcome to suggest, suppose, and infer:

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ACT TRICE

Tired horses/disarmed forces:
thar she blows over
like last autumn’s leaf,
curled up with a djinn & tunic
reading western wishes
as eastern oaths,
smok’d a number
laid out like lumber
buzzed to the sounds
of moulding mandragora
and the smell of death

waved away,
“surrogate lost”;
this frame fine to hold the whole load
tho it’s not what her hand showed,
frail in fell weather’s wail
hurtin’ as the curtain closed
on a Come-and Perform-this
for hostage hecklers
(their coiled-up rattleshake bites
long in the tooth and lethal),
who lapped this leisurely,
jerked jewels from her naked neck
to expose the portrayal’s betrayal

the divine missed ‘em,
blood of lamb on front door jamb,
steadied by the portal she pours forth
then pours a fifth
where sequels immune to scansion
are quid pro quelled by myth.