It’s
a soul-fire, a flaming scar, to stir for madness. It
screams
life, torn for over, a broken hinge. Oh for grief,
a
shattered word, tearing margins. We dig for deep, to
drift
for scars, scraping bars. Phones ring, to channel
souls,
folded in fury. I spin it wisely, a subtle angst, to
tickle
opera. Oh for pain, and crooked weeds,
strumming
lights. It’s all for bad, a weeping helm, a
falling
couch. I love it more, a blessed
grind,
sipping
poison; for thoughts are bold, for chiseled brick,
spinning
webs. We live and lose and lurk for nouns—
captured
at a gridlock. There’s art to
give, a grave
of
souls, striking for a church. It’s all a blur, the buzz
of
bees, cursing near a honey shack. We tip a vat, and
blaze
for jazz, heavy for a nightmare.
I sew a coat,
and
strip a seam, jagged on a fence. Its cloth and skin,
trekking
valley, lost for space. I look to blink, and still
abed, kicking through a portrait.
