Such
is passion
even
ripples peering
as
to fall into warm
eyes.
I
love you not, to love of you, your very miracle. I found for
voice,
a vehicle—a soul. I die in you, to fly through you,
the
saddest beauty. We met in music, to sniff a dream, a
chest
of voices. I carve for cedar, to spin through oak, a
mahogany
trestle. Shall we find—for carousels, and fiberglass
horses?
I love you not, to love of you, your very miracle. I
found
for soul, the deepest trance, a need for tar. There’s a
bucket—of
powdered ghosts, and dusty nostrils. We liquor
rain,
found without you, and bare to script
a highway. Such is
image,
to nurse a china doll, dripping into liquids. I’m melting—
to
fall through you, a heart beating screams. I love you not, to
love
of you, your very miracle. I found for germs, to grow
through
psyches, a garden long abandoned. Was it summer, a
vest
of psychedelics—our dreams? I ask, and no reply, rising
through
music. We speak a crush, a keepsake crush, to infuse a
nib.
Was it more—a tour—a pier of flashing cameras? Was God
photographed?
I love you not, to love of you, your very miracle.
I
found for voice, a breathing dungeon, to fly through you.
