We’ve felt for love, this force beyond entrance—your soul
scraping sky-crafts; as worn this thought, a tinge of Raggedy Ann—this
intrusive space. I can’t but love you, our names thrust through membranes, a
bit overly concentrated; to spin energy, while failing to retreat—this missing
interlude. Your arms are dovelike; your smile is forbidden; while time slips
into a comma; for purpose is grandiose, as love is honored most, with tears to
raft through souls. I feel you screaming, a product of ceilings, this agony as
rich as sin; to move with grace, as faced with demons—our bond a local
nightclub. Its mystery minded—this esoteric joy, to know you as an angel
through orbits; this fluffy language, to speak of pleasures—our right to
retreat; but more the highway, the 55 north, wrenching through traffic; to
touch but fevers, this inner arc—your heart sacrificed with Christ; this
christic fusion—your eyes as purple—our rain as apricots. I’ve known you more,
as to know for sinning, this thing our hands wouldn’t touch; this moonly style,
this wedge-wood oath, this feeling of argent springs. You’re beauty’s fire, the
radix of numbers, a fetching catastrophe; for love is privy, where torn men
watch, and perfect men brood; to clamor is public, over dulcet eyes, as sighted
in such modest glamour. I feel confused, embarking to speak, and missing the
mark: the wafture of love; that gracile war; or this bizarre feeling of
permanence; for oh this love, this abstract love, captured in concrete art;
where one would jape, to outwit what’s pure, tearing through consciousness.
I’ve died to see us—as more this flower, this hypnotized grandeur: our souls as
driven; our rights as forfeited; our auras as mating; [but it couldn’t be real,
this feeling we live, as to dismiss that fatal dispute].
