Your Own Time, Child

for kings there are too many moves
that advance before the stopwatch
paper about today it burns hope
at the feet of unidentified charity
these are away messages
on the run from mid-lives
we are medea’s children
playing nearer my god on deck
fortune tellers that shuffle cards
to chase stomachs down hallways
in aspersion to the financial sector
this land is covered in bad debt and
is a hunting ground for new translation
it is without champions at close of season