This is a sonnet called "Going with Fortune."
"In broken fields of what stays open,
in standard homeyness of overdays,
we found you building a wall of signs.
Calculating people are lonely, in shadows, boards,
and potatoes, ranking shoes in military highness.
Battlefields and handkerchiefs and battlefields
and battlefields, something profound here
in the thoughty middle.
We saw doing as a way to be sad and happy.
Stunned green seas wink to life on yearning's floating carpet.
After finding danger, they dethrone survival
as chance's closest homie."