HORROR Poem: Wrought-Iron, by Jeremiah Prenn

Actually,
and this is interesting,
I give you this

ten spots on the line
for food in ragged green parcels
pea-frost rises on the back of the truck

and many great humans are born without post
worth distributed in little caps and drawstring bags at Vespers
as I tell my newly machined lover that her rose is out of mint and crinkled

she rolls the soup cans down the hill. Places pass. Period ends. Nothing cracks or crumbles.
The bigamist tumbles off his horse, brushed by sap, canker leaching
but no one has the wherewithal to take a picture

Meaning that I, the one entrusted, besotted,
decline the objects within the frame,
choose to let pass

all that must.
Can you leave? I don’t know.
Maybe