I
usually breathe, and watch to perish, peeling a cactus;
but
more to death, a deadly breed, the first to gamble;
and
what to give, a vase of stars, grieving my name. I
spoke
for dreams, even a chariot, to float your fire; and
as
to fall, for wiping petals, to wash a soul. I crawl, to
raise
a heart, and there for stalwart standing. Was it
pain,
to pop a drink, and soar a nation? I laugh, for
something
sorrow, a tear to trickle cotton. I can’t for
thought,
etching for gray, as abstract as a kiss. Where
to
give, to haunt for rain, if to feel an opus. It’s more
collage,
a bending scream, to echo, “I love you.”
I’m
low, and ten years lacking, to imagine smiles. It’s
something
lunar, a preppy speech, a stenciled love; and
yes,
as valid as a trend; and yes, as solar as fireworks. I
move
to feel, and lost in gravel, to mingle concrete.
The
years keep motion, and neither a fruit, and neither a
beer;
but ever a chamber, to spark a city, mourning for
daughters.
It’s ever there, a sprinkled wave, a cave of
diamonds;
and what for joy, a sore allusion, a father’s
ballad.
I plant it for grass, as blue as purple grain, agile
with
sorrow; and more to life, a feeling pash, to never
hear
voice. This is earth, a jasper rose, to mallet souls.
