He’s tussling, this vignette woman, a bit too shifty; while
bass is rural, this rustic night-glare through fields of brown; those hectic
eyes, as carrying breath—this vital village of valleys. I wade through brooks,
at once for mercy, to see it as illusion; this misprint, while a voice pleads
for bleeding forgiveness. Its screaming death
this brilliant light-wave
infused with tonics
this inner tunic.
I’m found this gloom, as heavy as love, bruised—for
unsettled; while façades sale, this wealth of welts, this vignette woman:
this flyleaf, as blank an image, as fried a notion
skipping upon symbols.
I loved a séance, while conjuring ghosts, while running
through ghosts
this banquet of souls, crawling as to fly, as high above
charades; as this lonely feeling, such classic masks, a psych’s pastime. What
for weather, this cascading heart, afflux the seas of mermaids! I knew us
younger, while going astray, this bouquet of bloody petals
while parading love
as to court scars
this vignette woman. We watched heaven, slipping through
time, addicted to a first kiss
where moments counted
before that gray season
where words become tyrants.
