Shift
a pendulum
while
awake, to
sleep
a monsoon.
There’s
a cloudburst, a center broken, choking off locusts.
There’s
a ripple, for rotten rills, racing through railroads.
I’m
part pressure, a plaint paining, partial to penalties.
I’m
sick, an inner illness, sullen for success. I’m well, an
outer
edge, willful for welts. We surf it, fully insidious,
a
wreath of ink. Indeed, it counts for less, to crave a
countess.
Indeed, it veils vision, to vet a vowel. I love it,
spinning
for living, alone in a loft. I hate it, barely
healed,
spearing heaven. It’s for novels, to nature words,
headed
north. Was it us, an utter feud, feeling ugly? I
grapple,
to summons grit, to gauge an office. I’m gone,
a
poet’s gut, gunning towards healing. I loved her, to
shun
health for hell, hurting hard hissing. She smiled,
stressing
structure, sealed in sacred sadness. I loved her,
less
for lease, a livid light-bulb. We jogged, jutted sorely,
a
javelin. More to birth, born burning, brimming with
violence.
Is it true, to tamper terror, to trade trust’s tone? I
clamor
hope, to cleave chaos, canned for center cloning.
