I
feel it this river, a bit sullen—attached, a flickering wick. The night is sad, the wine is gone, and I
must watch this mirror. There’s a
ghostly childhood, a rocky adulthood, and periodic fevers. I trek a railroad, to gather iron, to
carry a life-load; where all are victims; and all are giants, to balance out
blessings; but truth is gold, a swan for visions, a bit esoteric; and baby’s
thumb, to print a brain, a touch for psychedelic. I love in absence, to love in presence, to
plant for seven seeds. The days were
green and aqua blue, a teddy for a tear; and when mother smiled, I saw for
ghosts, to read a map. I’m off the
scale, to fit a tornado, a silent ostrich; and mind to war, and war to mind, to
climb a phantom. I love her like
candy, and tic-tac-toe, to journey a gaze; where all is chess, and vest scars,
and sacred motion; for this is life, and holy sessions, to feel it and dance;
in which is love, a featured graph, to know for not; whereat is chaos and
butterflies and ladybugs and dreams.
I must return—to a beige swan, to live in between; and I must return—to
a flaming furnace, a girl’s eyes; and yes for bold, a phantom for a muse, and
ever for love. We fever the night,
and steam for days, as gray as a first thought. I love her swimming, and flowing freely,
and freely flying; where spirits fawn, and chant through brows, and beige as
said swan. I know for hearts, to spin
a net, to capture souls; and all for love, to feel and perish, to perish and
feel; whereby a wave, even a storm, to boomerang a heart.
We must for stars, to climb for winds, two
destined for wings; or maybe return, to a cozy cloud, to dream for countenance;
and more again, to grin and smile, gripping a wounded lamb.
I drift to touch—a golden seed, afflux a
web; and that is life, to bump a curb, spinning dimensions; and god heard, to
chant a verb, as stormy as silence.
