I
imagine love, the extent of virtues, to know for rich men; to see for eyes, the
glitter of hypnotism, to nibble caviar; where pain is gentle, to reason the
force, to tackle the mountains. I perish to fathom, the finishing schools, the
classes of etiquette; to see surprises, to flicker a cuff, to know I couldn’t. I measure rings, to spin the
‘canoes, to grip a torpedo; where love is flesh, a chiseled contour, the
pressure of white men. Oh the heartbeats, to stir the cosmos, to love the
swans; but I couldn’t see, the realist’s agony, tugging dreadlocks. Are we
alive, sorting through minutia, staring at russet visions? I ponder the days,
to watch a smile, even a detached laugh. It couldn’t be, this waking grain, to
move a thought; and still it is, to pass with prose, a day on a thread. I panic
to feel it, this inner pulling, a bias towards pain. Oh to tell it, to scream
rebukes, to manage the brain. Have I touched it; this life of ours, this inner
mechanism?—for love is gray, to settle for prose, to never touch eyes; the
realm of fevers, to caress a waist, to hold a rib; where moments blossom, to
strip the veil, as potent as opium. I know in portions, the waves of grief, to
finally court for joys; to die a sentence, and live a sentence, to feel for
eternity; the wealth of honor, the call of duty, the ache of feeling
distressed; but this is life, the hurt through righteousness, to harness
impulses. It would never be: the picnics and wine, the movies and tears,
spinning through those images; where the goddess mourns, to know her slot, to
want the wild tattoos; but this for reason, the measure of tents, to mingle in
certain circles; where love is actions, and rarely for displays, where
intellect is master.
