Never
the a.m. […] and ever the a.m. […] sipping to ponder your name. I reread three
poems, ensconced deeply, a fever in a fire, to feel for segments; and less the
comfort, and more the vision, to speak a soul…and was it you? […] a feather in
a wing, a noetic friend. Oh for thetic dreams, a thesis is a library, a poem
through a heart. Its melic soul-beats, and a.m. lights, to nurture a phantom.
Its kith for dreams, to unfrock the darkness, a bit unfledged; for ghosts are
knocking, to spark a taper, trekking through wetland; and all for psyches—to
journey a brain, the sad tiers of gladness; and more the tavern-keepers, a bit emboldened—to
trespass an inner chamber. We feel the ploughman—for deep the fields, and
chopping wood. It’s all for ritual, to exert the soul, to channel chi; and god
for there, to visit a heart, to whisper a voice—inside a brain. I died the
distance, to dread for outcomes, to never see eyes; and Havasu Falls, a turn
for difference, to speak the pain. I fumble this word, to feel for granted, the
depth of such words. They link us tightly, a B-Complex, a social vitamin; where
love is present, albeit denied, the reach of expression; for this is life, to
want through pressures, and never receive; but not for all—for some for reach,
despite the banshee’s of minds. We pant and paint, the rustic wants—afraid of
cities; and this is oath, the want of rain, if fair the balance; but never
would, to cross a love, as sunlit as skies. I know for anger, a fulgent light,
an inrush of life; where bonds perish, to grip perception, as biblic as
Hebrews; but this is grains, and threshing roots, as wild as, I Love you; but more to life, and
stippled passions, forgiving friends; in which is love—for churning seasons,
the legends of valleys.
