Swan Priest

Read the draperies, Love—excavate the credenzas—penetrate the shoji screens; for this is wisdom, to trek the cedar-chests, to unthread the futons; else harp the night pains, upon a tuffet, screaming at a couch. We welcome the love seats; that far removed, from the cautious self. The tales are mixed—to die the joys, even upon a porch swing, to capture a firefly; but oh the woes, to forget the good, while claiming innocence. It’s often a farce, but why speaks of truths, where so many believe. It’s a radical gesture, where many perish, for the audience has grown suspicious; but live it more: a piano’s friend, an antique china, as wise as the unseen; where pearls dance, to chance the moon, to scrape a tiny crevice; to fly this life, a woman as priest, a quiver of secrets; to aid a soul, at that midnight hour, a woman as the guru.

Read the draperies, Love—examine the coffee tables—realize the measure of games; for this is wisdom, for one to know, to will participation. There’s a gem to it: to see it play out, to watch it get angry—merely for we see. This is radical, where many are even—for masters of fair-play; in which is magic, a treasured friend, to seem unborn. We speak the ideal, where it must exist, at least in appearance; but more the actual, to live resistance, despite the difficulty; in which are dreams, to touch the tea cart, a palm filled with jewelry—to cause for healing, to suture wounds, to live the richest breath; for there are pendants, modeled as humans, to spark the divine.