I
love, and somewhat mawkish singing a fever to ponder your
soul.
I was smitten flowing through a dream and screaming
out
sincerity. We mingle through void, an empty-full space,
to
crumble to a line; and not for game, but more a stitch, to
friction
a seam. I love you like never, akin to a nightmare,
reading
Traci. We fall to Cummings, alive in Trethewey,
crawling
through Auden. I commune to strike a soul, to
vow
a daughter’s integrity. It’s less a nerve, but more a core,
to
structure for Culture. I struck upon Grimkè, a passionate
fin,
stressing for kingdoms. We long this life, reading through
Ezra,
to chisel a fountain, pawing at Huldah. I’m more for
Sexton,
to pull at travesty, enlove with legacy. My dearest
heart:
the rivers are E. Bishop, fleeing through Sylvia, to
mourn
Maya’s death. Such are features, dancing with Whitman,
to
pause at Frost. I love us, to tread through gravel, to picture
metaphors.
Our days are grave, to struggle through lightning,
while
nibbling on thunder. Oh to dream of E. Browning, to flood
a
sonnet, ten tendons into Virginia Wolf.
