Feel
us living, such to live, gnawing on life and being.
I
adore you, so platonic, pondering Douglass. I, too,
hear,
rising where we fell, eager to compose. So many
blocks,
sipping lights, unaware of love. Something
gentle
plays, where memories bounce, wrestling upon
a
bed. Our temperature, a small explosion, kissing
dreams.
Oh we never, where I slip, exaggerating here
and
there. Complexion was everything, but never a
fear.
I caressed brows, whispered eyelashes, and
neglected
love. Such intelligence, streaming
consciously,
where books were dimensions. Why
this,
and why that, an every moment occurrence,
the
deepest pressure. Everything bears a genre, a
classification,
even love and loss. Birds chirped and
watched,
while squirrels zipped and climbed. Each
wondering
of love, where friendship gripped a moon,
sung
a sun, and clipped a sky. In script, something
unraveled,
a hint of never this art, and never this pain.
