Fire
is swarming
a
lot of Asiatic souls. I sit there kneeling near firewood—
anointed
for ritual. I’m set for baptism, a priest speaking in
Hebrew;
for there’s a demon, to afflict a writhing soul. I float,
ever
a frenzy, to sight for black eyes. I’m found in soil,
guts
for paint, even bone for brushes. Its unborn rebirth, to
breathe
a portrait, ever to break free. There’s luster, the first
to
be sighted, to kiss her with passion. Our fuel, the
strangeness
of
strangers. We build a hut, to live as monks, to resurrect. I
found
her love: the scent of musk, a heart of
fabrics,
a
mind to disappear in public. We sought for portraits, to enter
faceless,
a touch immortal. Children painted our tombs.
We
live acrylics, passing through gateways. I see her, to sift
through
fragrance, to unmask love. We’re there, a floating
world,
to purchase brackets. Our land, a wealth of habits,
reading
to Rumi.
