We
wrestle the minds, adjusted sorely,
contending with a thought;
to
witness portals, even skylights, while mirrors melt pride. The
days
of tussling—the tuxedo images, haunted by subtle gestures.
They
loved as adolescents, shivering adult-life, to bathe in turquoise
rivers:
the stars would speak; the moons would tremble; a tear
would
fawn.
It’s
a mere gesture, to trigger memories, this internal arc—to float
the
distance, to surf the chasm, to trespass the Greco; where love is
different—a
tropic cave, a philosophic world; in which is meaning, in
which
are bars, the scars of interpretation.
I see a side of you, to
memorize
many, where memory is beneath the surface; whereat is
challenge,
a deliberate tactic, to pull the soul; even to trouble heights,
to
fly freely through turmoil, to heal that broken memoir.
We
live a cryptic life, the puce of flowing sulfur, the glens of our
psyches;
whereto is art—and thereto is love—as platonic as a sudden
glance;
we take the prow, to jog the heart, as unexplained as breath:
to
float that moment, neatly slain, to return a burst of energy.
I glide to you, to take little for
comforts, to live vibrations; it’s
truly
the waves, to ponder your person, a stranger in a vast crowd;
but
set aflame, glowing within, a radiance upon the countenance;
whereby
the cultic, to keep it for secret, to reach the inner boundary—
and
unlock jewels, to float that moment, to kneel upon gravel.
