I
love her afar, a snack for breakfast, a bagel for dinner. We
popped
a pill, a villain’s brew, and lost all marbles. I’m
sick
for it, to woo a verb, and pant a noun. Life a rose, as
gorgeous
as love, to prune a vowel. Was it ink, a feeling
pash,
grinning at a funeral? I’m gone, to peak a purpose,
and
proud of scars. I love, twisted dearly, to fawn a flaw. Its
gray—and
specked, stippled at a red light. We fly, a
woman’s
odor, running from church. I want it—love, to
tiptoe
a grave; and more to fly, to flee a wealth of habits.
She
cried to see it, and others laughed, to extend a bullet. I
tasted
gravel, and sawed a sea, walking in between. We mix
for
passion, to sing a feeling, a bark of bluebirds. I heard
for
love, afraid to utter—and not a word.
Now for care, a
sacred
adjective, to float a sentence. We
live it spent, and
closely
bankrupt, lying for flavor. It’s sort of sandy, a poet’s
beach,
to sizzle pash; and play the flute, inhaling deeply, to
fit
the pixels; for picture perfect, a perfect picture, as real as
a
nightmare. I love her afar, a snack for breakfast, a bagel for dinner
