So
much confusion—netted in features, as someone driven; as fuchsia petals, drift
downstream, the organ of our souls. We made you a promise, that one
incumbent—upon stems and bark. I felt to meander, the branches of a cloud, the
florets of a star. I thought to live—this facial rapture, paused and chilly. I
thought to feel, coiled in weeds, spoiled by the moment. I thought to push,
unto a shattered vase, to drink the features. So much confusion, to label us
heartless, as to spawn a tear; and so much pain, the spikes of midnights, the
cranes of turmoil; and so much joy, to come in spurts, agitated by doubts. I
thought the sober days, as it came to us, this brilliant lamp; to invade a
cave, as to explode. I thought of ways, as gray as therapy, where one human
judges another. I thought of rain, the tears of professors, the demons and
angels grounded closely. I thought of psychs, as to frighten capacity, to see
as one slanted—as to push passed that person, slanted on stable grounds, as one
frantic for memoirs. There’s a safe, that closer the brains, as if to crack it open.
I thought of dreams, wherefore, to mature, to become an inner force; whereto,
that controversy, that omen, that paradox; in which a frame, captures a
butterfly, to wish for fangs—as life the naïve, a thorn in a rib, a woman
beyond reach; the capacity of politics, the graphics of chancing—upon a fading
prayer. I thought to panic, to see myself, to touch such energy—and channel
this line. I thought of you, as multiple persons, where it rubbed off;—to
feature a ghost, upon your arrival, as one to do a favor. I’ve lost a filter,
to gain a vest, unthreading a comforter—to see emotion, as loving the calm, to
appear too serious.
