Be
for kiss, a stormy weather, upon suede boots. Was it nightly,
even
through the morning, a puffy powder? I’m for Adonis, in
want
to learn, to tremble at noon. I’m something there, to glare
at
Lana, thinking pearls. We disappear, lost in language, to
flicker
inanis. How many stories, staring at
lights, to love
through
grey? It’s broken armoires, and leather sofas, to
ponder
goodbyes. I’m bright for presence, to embody spirit,
if
only to scrape sorrow. We live it, a life of criminals, to
steal
a soul; where wrong is law, and ought is mortal, to drift
a
sky-lamp. Was it life, to permeate music, a humble heart? I
venture,
to waft through forms, to tiptoe symbols. Its nails
and
hair—to sprinkle for holy; where sin is dream, a bedded
cry,
to perish through seasons. I’m flogged and dying—to
sprinkle
for holy. Its purple kilns, a mellow bass, and a need to
flit
and fly. I feel for tempo, to hear it given, a stranger’s love.
I
feature—a person laughing—to wedge a fortress. We drift—
ever
to float, to kiss a monster. It’s ever this collar, a cello torn,
spinning
through beige and brown.
