I
shouldn’t be angry, to see self, possess power, away from
self.
It’s a paradox, a high vs. low, where extremes rupture.
Something
was altered, a fallen manic, nearing a field of
dangers.
I cry purple, yanking a russet sky, reaching for
teal
tulips. I love it in jasmine, a beautiful rugby, striped
with
grays. Every art a fang; and every soul an art. Fangs
become
treasures, and souls become wings. I’ll meet you
in
waves, to prune a heart, exotic as opal plums.
I
shouldn’t be angry, to till soils, ever possessed, an element
of
self. It’s a hydrant, a broken seal, lashing out into a city.
So
play a guitar, strum a tear, in a vineyard of drums. Indeed,
something
lives, ever in focus, a fist full of flowers. I love it
in
turquoise, a woman’s blouse, spotted with daisies. Every
night
a day; and every core a sun. Nights become gems, and
suns
become cosmic. Indeed, I’ll feel you in pains, to scrape
a
star, as moving as ocean blue.
