I
stay for distance, as near as veins, as cloaked as heartbeats.
Faucets
pour—muddy vines, adjusted sorely. I love a
stranger,
for not to touch, but mystic skies. Was it unfair,
a
tender religion, to outcast women? The very she loves,
as
precious as nuns, debating likeness. I heard a stranger, a
tender
frustration, as holy as Gertrude. We wrestled words,
to
sit for stillness, stoned in spirit. I see a forest, and every
tree
a universe. How to paint hallways, running from music,
where
symbols grow limbs. I’m chased, and drifting,
thrumming
a talisman. I love a stranger, for not to love, a
tender
abyss. Its silent cries, and torn goodbyes, nursing an
infant.
We shadow rain, and shadowed by, to hear for grains
creeping.
He reaped a stranger’s harvest, where a yogin
smiled.
I’m indebted dearly, to sculpt an ocean—for
inquisition.
I heard a stranger, to lecture life, spinning a wedding
ring.
We wrung a pencil, to sip a soda, where faucets pour. I
carved
a wind, to grip a symbol, tiptoeing friction. She smiled
a
demon, to ink a poem, where a saxophone scribbled.
