We’ve
gained immortality, as pulse to vein, as stem to root; and how this measure—but
love through vice, the gaze of our souls. Such russet eyes, as captured in
Polaroid, to stir our beginnings; and telic ears, eager for service, to
translate the unspoken message; and hassle this heart, as banter for joy, as
lasting discipline. I run from desert to forest; and I run from river to sea;
and I run from mirror to soul; and I run to arms wrapped in northern clouds. I
run at that steady pace, chased by reason, and evermore to run; indeed to run,
and right to souls, as one that runs through dens. We run to what we are
running from; and we run to Siamese islands; and we run from ourselves, to
finally reach this distant mind. Such heart shaped hips, as moving as an ape’s
tear, as alluring as the calling winds; to surface this prose—her fingers
posing upon nipples, and her breasts a pair of gazelles. I long the night air,
to ruin a tavern, pulling at Pocahontas; and I long the Nubian dream, tugging
at arias; and I long the patient breath, wrenched through with love; so sip
these wings, the cup of sky-pearls, the passion of the meadows; or rather
makeout points, that fallen romance, enthralled with angels; for I love us
singing, as eagles upon waves, as falcons upon preys; the cover of complexion,
as sulfur to gravel, or pineapples to margaritas, or man to her bless-ed mind.
In truth, we run, to find this life, flooded with apollonian dreams; and die
this nescience, to gain such wisdom, as complete as evolution; so more for
searching, to ponder her lashes, to capture the cache of her heart; and less
the musing, to live as featured souls, a bit winded from trekking.
