He’s
threaded with rain, to shift for rain, sanding mirrors.
He
is I, a cosmic tornado, and one last shift. I need for
dreams,
indelible dreams, haunting opaque mirrors. She
wrestles—a
gray impression, angered for no good reason.
Such
confusion, to sing for blues, scraping a beige sun.
She’s
ever silent, a reticent moon, confiding in fey. I see
her
in waves, gripping a frown, and nonchalant; but
what
to give, for pulled within, grinning sadly? I drift—
for
silence, a fallen leopard, a tangled symbol; and such
for
love, a yogic theme, sprinkled with bias. I trek for
earth,
bound for heaven, to tiptoe thunder. I drift—to
utter
woes, a captain of rain. Indeed, I pull for voice, a
bit
too much, an undulation; where dreams are funneled,
to
flood a stomach, piercing midnight waves. I drift—to
shelter
love, a person thwarted, and thus—frustrated;
where
life is order, somewhat hebetated, a fallen calf. I
shift,
for one last glance, to chance a vehicle; for art is
grain, a soul for flung, to cleek a cloud.
