Something’s
thinking—for dwelling in crevices, a vehicle by admission; to perish this land,
to triumph the skies, a wing to a prayer. It tickles ears, for erumpent hearts,
to register chi. Its locked in eyes, a hypnotic swirl, spinning out of control:
the pain, the love, the ripples of heartache. I see us at tennis, or even
golfing, laughing and choking up; for this is art, to shift the cosmos, to
comfort a precious swan. The soul is soaring, steady at surfing, a bit for sick
and suffering; but something’s thinking—for dwelling in crevices, a vehicle by
admission; to flourish and grow, the snow of this pressure, depending on Love;
where Christ charters, a champion of souls, sullen for the triumph; oh the
Passion, kneeling at gardens, to generate the Spirit’s chi. I speak it—to feel
it—the mother of a swan; for something’s thinking, to dwell on high, to wrestle
forces; but more to rain, the hate through tears, that closer to forgiving;
whereat are stars, for sacred souls, sealed and suffering; but art to joy, to
find that moment, where things make sense; of course it’s rare, the golden
love, to feel the heart; where Christ is speaking, a sagacious source, the
course of this lightning. Oh the religious, to carry the symbol, to dig and
pull and bankrupt death; in fact it’s life, this charm and anklet, gripping the
tassel of prayer beads. I love a stranger, to see her soar, through hell and
heavens; for something’s thinking, to dwell in crevices, to shadow a
voiceprint; in which is action, the extent of prayer, to mobilize verbs; and oh
the secret, to speak with authority, or else for silence; for I come to You,
not merely a seeker, but a soul for demands. Its deep a riddle, to find and mold,
a flagrant fever.
