Oh
for rollercoaster’s, spinning to fall, to rise a triumph. You
send
for souls, as slanted as depression.
I’m
knitted your soul, to drip from fangs, a quasi-rapture. We
churn
a cello, to sorrow a flute, filled with sudden joys. I
grieve
for texture, a measure of mercy, to find your stream.
We
wrestle a shadow, for richest darkness, to hold a hand
stranded.
I trek a pier, a myriad of poets, a memoir bleeding.
Oh
for orison, ever for an altar, kneeling where candles turn.
I
flicker like rain, a garment of angst, for an almighty sage.
You
scripted herbs, a tome for William, for a mind gifted.
Oh
for unborn, to breathe for breath, a slipping lifeline. I
climb
for sights, a midsummer grunt, a gesture for poesy. You
peek
to pull, to mock for structure, an atlas of words. I yearn—
amazed,
a brooch on grain, to feel uneven; but oh for texture,
the
stamina of pain, a mallet for an ink-pen. It’s a nautic
storm,
even an allegory, to nestle a sentence. I saw a tiara, to
wonder
of culture, falling to keys. You drive a snail, to raise
a
turtle, for alas a sprinting cheetah. I’m torn for reason, a
flood
for souls, an ember to a flame. Its dear devotion, a wave
of
‘motions, a symbol born vague.
