It’s
etched in flesh—this immortal faith, as a Latin portrait; it’s fevered in
minds, the grind of this love, this internal technique. We try to grasp it,
this wave of geese, plucking our inner pain. It’s ever abstract, to love this
vision, a woman twice his wisdom; as born to cherish, this inner symbol, as
fleeing and flying to destiny. There’s room for persons—that much in sweat,
soaking in scented smaze; this smoke of hour’s, belonging to none, as even a
soaring rocket—this cry! We bring it to concrete, this melodic woman, seated in
stirring emotions. It’s a core affect, as painted in psyches, ever to move his
loins. Let us fall, into swampy lagoons, without uttering a word. Let us speak
as bodies, oiled in fevers—and falling into dungeons. We claw forever,
scratching and gnawing, as sensuous as chiseled experience; to move with grace,
as meditated in Zen—this churning passion. He lied to live it, to set it at
bay—this vague voiceprint; to hold her dearly, to hear her words, bellowed through
interiors; the fragments of tapestries; the language of lust; as sheltered in
integrity; to have and hold and love—this woman of a thousand grains. It takes
for courage, to scold a sanctum, as this danger to shift; if left to fancy, as
a crowded bar, where she spoke to his eyes. He saw for sadness, this hidden
fruit, a propeller in a dungeon. He left and cried, those nights of mania, ten
steps into a shadow. It mustn’t be life, to love as pressure, a soul destined
for estrangement; to ask for courage, to live this life, to experience beyond
words; this gravel of souls, this shackle of stars, reaching and groping for
more. He could never return, for folly is grand, or to recapture this stolen
glance. Our tides are abstract. Our concrete is liquid. The ocean is speaking
of love; as to voyage forever, weaving and winding, as woven into a crevice. We
shift and turn and love and die—if more to cherish this seething sky;—it
couldn’t be real, this writhing essence, as was given to flesh; and it mustn’t
be real, this pure attraction, where life concerns pushing pieces; to hold for
capture, the watery sun, a shattered art.
