A dove kicked his chest, flew in, and disappeared; while
swans flocked afar, and geese swarmed the lagoons, while I pondered in visions.
It couldn’t be life, this flaming elephant, as taking center stage: we saw it
not, while gripping a trunk, spewing words about pinkness. I love us living, aside coyotes, where
cheetahs chase glass tires; but it couldn’t be real, this daughter as friend,
as to witness such kindness; this family of three, pierced by thunder, affected
with intuition; that ground of Sufis—where it falls in December—this love for
prophets. I scramble to live, at voice this falcon, while standing nigh a
furnace; to feel it leap, this camel and eye, too rich to enter; so more to
hells, the glasses of men, at quandaries with professors. The tides have shifted, as witnessed in
prose, while mothers sip riddled teas; this thing of schools, as foolish as
hyenas—that maniacal laughter. I saw us
bleeding, as running bandages, sutured from head to toe, as fighting love, this
thing of scars, afraid to part the Red Sea; where demons lurk, as fishing for
souls, while whales scream of deliverance.
It mustn’t be life, this grade of cheese, as authentic as examples. (Let us pause.) I return to love, this thing of love, while
purposed to love; wherewith, are fires, this vivid mirage, as chasing after
realities; those slanted fractions, as bent equations, falling into algorithms;
to see us gleaming, afore this office, as a psych plays pretend; as not to
realize, these mutual sights, while fully alert. I drift and fall, as touching pavement—a
gremlin in a tux; those too soon passions, as to know for little, while years
have assaulted doubts. I said it
blankly, as not to receive it, but time is a fatal blur. I’m ever at war, this watch to sea—while hell
grieves this beautiful outcome; but here’s a secret, this thing of fools, as
believing hell grants blessings. It couldn’t be real, this favor of lights,
while trekking this sky of meadows. I’m
up-side-down, falling into sulfur, as staring at a jaguar; to befriend
wildness, a chain to a leaf—our tapestries flapping through fans; to see us
breathe, as inhaling deeply—this person of terrors.
