Its
winter blues, the death of mother, to feign for perfect—soaring the madness,
thinking of a drink, that closer to the sunlight; to feel it beat, to know she
knows, a bit for esoteric; plus the memoirs, reading for nursing, and never
weaned; in which are aches, the scrapes of dungeons, to guard an infant. We
gave her milk, to watch her play, a young lady’s cup—for something to overflow,
to outsoar parents, to snatch her away. “I walk on my own”;—shifting through
growths, as bold as untamed animals. It’s quite intrusive, to snatch a coke,
and sip with ownership. We laugh to see it, a bit unaware, to watch a young
person—streaming through letters, learning the language, a tour combative. I
scribble a note, to peer into life, rubbing a picture. The world is cold,
yearning for rewards, to feel it embedded: this need to please, to remember
parents, to carry them worldwide; plus for scruples, to wrestle ethics, a
course of vexation. To know she wouldn’t, and did it to us, a journey quite
partial; where hunger growls, to feel for raptures, eyes spinning upwards—and
ever for an upwelling, to stress for feelings, to elude a conversation. Oh for
unaffected, the something of a myth, as laudable as slow death—to feel that
way, the tithes of life, as emphatic as meditation; to see us perish, the
something of degrees, to rise as a young force. I watch her sparkle, a bit
exposed, to outwit fatigue—the greed of pressures, to caution the souls, to
pardon infractions; for it runs this course, a daily event, to think with
distress—and ever channeled, a television of hearts, sparse on affection; in
which for woes, to die and never give, that close to receiving—the tides—the
hurts—the calmness.
