Do
you love me; this knitted ugly, as holy as fallen men; this
sermon
to flesh, this serpent of woes, to repent at the
church-bell.
The temple is bleeding, grieving a young swan,
to
scream out apologies; but hell is a thief, the soul’s firefly,
even
a sunray. I love you living, a saffron tulip, the realm of
justice.
It’s more your life, ever a thunderclap, ever my selfhood.
It
turned a corner, a sublime corner, from loved to hated; the art
of
pressure, that inward cave, the soul devastated; but never
this
pain, to hope for smiles, the Sartre of alchemic tears; to
transform
life, an augury of kisses, the rune of innocence. I see
for
suns, my unphysical heart, chiming with an artery. How to
touch
you, the billow of pain, the kismet of tragedy! We died
so
young, a pensive nightmare, to forget the good-times; so
whisper
dreams, the sacral dreams, as christic as Lent. I never
could—the
stalk of grime, to tremble the photic. We paint the
legends,
as cultic as heart-warming, to drift afire—floating
through
violets—and God came, the gravid star, the splendor of
war.
We
drink the ink, to sing and swim—an ember to flicker;
where
love is purple, a daughter’s heartsore, the texture of
seashores.
I hear the valiant, a swan in motion, the courage to
face
life; and hear for love, a secret disguised, to stipple the faith.
We
courted dalliance, to savor zeal, to hope for the deathless;
but
life is grains, the turns of grief, to finally seal heaven. I love
you
more, to finally let go, to except the terms of life; for more
mature,
this inward upsurge, a mother’s drumbeat—to see it fly,
a
tender moment, to think of few.
