Oh
to see, the rills of airwaves, covered in a yawn; or to rub her chest, to see a
person, this man for hiding; oh the glory, semi-camouflaged, the nearness of
yoni; and oh the deaths, to see the life, struggling to breathe. We love for
children, our pride for joy, to live a fraction of youth; to see for growth,
the unhewn diamond, molded through the years. My dearest swan—a woman
prayed,
an extraordinary prayer;—and thus the lightning, and thus the force, and thus
our attention. We listen closely, to the sound of silence, to hear a chirp. Is
it mind—the length of rays, our tender essence? I ask—that far removed, as
attached as umbilical cords. Oh the paradox, to live the distance, as close as
eye lent; plus the fever, to chase the good life, to
examine
souls; for oh the night, to part the waves, to cringe and resurrect; and oh for
Bridget, to portray the knight, a woman shedding armor. I see it and panic—for
art is gray, unless the full affect; and partial this day, the cut of minds,
sipping for falling. We gather wiles, the tense of a sentence, to wonder for
the cause. My dearest swan—it couldn’t be—the years of execution—to
see
and fly, to court the winds, to summons the gods. I hear a woman, even a
mother, parting through nouns; to see for self, to scour the jewels, to polish
the heart; to see it yield—a wealth of treasures, as potent as the first time.
Oh the thunder, to shred an oasis, the thought for skating and skiing; for ups
are downs, to circle the spheres, to scold the monster;—to live the saint, to
paint harmony,
a bit for the rebel. Something’s dying, where something’s living, to feel the
disjunction; to yearn consistency, in a world of schisms, to pray the
swans.
