I
grapple with it, to live with it, forgiven in fragments. I ache
a
nightmare, adrift for groans, a fraction of self. I often
reach—the
arm of a stranger, sitting with spawns. I sought
to
plant it, painting for heaving, a portrait of asthma. We
won
for loss, a tender bruise, to wonder for love. True to
facts:
what is it; where does it breathe? I
figure a soul, to
cherish
a friend, to build a saxophone; for flutes are sailing,
to
reach a queen, oblivious to a feeling. We’re braiding hemp,
to
hope for cushion, twisting our faces. I gave it life, a slate
of
pain, weaving nightmares. Its deep for fabric, threaded in
breaches,
to speak an inner flame. I retrieved it, a tainted
feeling,
to mirror mire; but more to love, a trenchant
converse,
built in angels; indeed a seraphim—has stolen
paradise,
for doting doves; for burgundy eyes, speak to nectar,
for
raining karma. We irk to vex, pulling for tugging, a bit
uneven;
for it needles life, ever alive, wrestling turmoil; to
feel
withdrawal, clad in temperaments, to grip for yesterday;
for
passion stirs, for ice aflame, a promise chiseled.
