I
love us floating, barely alive, spinning through breath. I’m
far
a shore, the deepest meditation, falling through koans;
and
there you sit, an unphysical science, a young swan. I
want
for waves, and speaking caves, somewhere a psyche.
I
love us finding, for oft a journey, bleeding a journal. It’s
ever
our picture, to never forget, a touch of my eyes. Oh for
mercy,
caped in grammar, to wrench it softly. It’s tender a
reed,
a greed for rapture, to impart gravity. We grind for
nectar,
the grandest splendor, a mystic inrush; and how to
figure,
a born poesy, to feel your aura? So net for doctrine,
the
deepest secrets, pulling at neurons; for awe to strike, a
vest
of horderves, a trumpet soul. Oh for sickness, a tide of
fey,
a rhapsodic sky. It’s ever a swan, a delicate grace, as
stern
as parents. We gift it gold, my well-beloved, tugging at
stars;
and what of heart, a sphinxly game, spinning
tornadoes;
and what of love, a father’s cry, alive your soul;
for
it’s more a light, a deep enigma, a tad bit surreal; else
for
falling, a Delphic river, an oracle of silence.
