What
for this feeling, days on and off, leaking into sadness; or hours of joy,
psychotic feelings, and this warmth—your name; to read a thump, or breed an
instinct, that close to a living leaf. I heard your heart, to circumvent
features, while intrigued with chi; this measure by thoughts, heavy this mental
traffic, feeling by pressure this mystic: such are cycles, as motion through
time, that sluggish feeling; to examine emotions, at pace every step, leering
at inner domains. I loved a thought, prior to introjects, to imagine this
cheerful life: as filled with apricots, or the nectar of peaches, while love
kisses such thoughts: this merry feeling, parading within, as if existence
disappeared; that field of plums, colored by finger-paints, nesting in a
sleeping-bag; but more to moments, those feverish wines, followed by days of
sobriety; that subtle nuance, that low insanity, that center trekking
unsteadily; to ponder this web, as fully to mercies, awaiting this feeling to
pass. I know not this fancy, as retreating forwardly, fraught by this fancy for
fantasies: I know not this feeling, as aging with fawning, this terrible
justice by hearts; to remember grace, this angry silence, permeated by holy
presence; this kiss of souls, that froward feeling, at ease to gaze by sorrows:
that inner person, at leaps by hearts, running by pressures those grapes. I’ve
dined alone, sipping dark roast, floating through visions; to have that
feeling, as groaning softly, to imagine those miracles; where arts are shadows,
while caves are treasures, at far that face in the distance; as running
forever, teardrops as loquats, and squirrels heavy at our heels. I remember
beige, this pace of beauties, while sipping medium roast—those preaching legs,
designed for love, as chosen by measure to return cadence. It had to live us,
this casual misread, at once destined for complaints—as striving by kayak, to
reach this forest, where manna fell.
