(I
filled a vase, to stumble a tuffet, to love as sighted; this dream of men, that
vicious journey, as a vivid loneness); to kiss by chance, to have this second,
as crucial to demons. It was ever magic, a daughter to streams, a mother to
screams; as painted perfect, that aloof nature, that deep passion—while
laughing this curse, afforded a miracle, to offended he wouldn’t; as doing that
thing, by arts a spark, akin to naïve wishes. (I hoped to find us, eloping as
christic—that sheer inflection—as churned through guts, this outer effusion, at peace to live in shadows): that wave of fools; that terrified image; that
glitter drawing from waters—that inner music, that feeling for love, that time
for one last chance; as if to die, ravished by life, as living that one last
dream. (I saw a swan, kayaking a wire,
dipping into warm rivers; as mother cried, this transformation, aglow by
wiles—as streaming afar, to pull that inner person, as alive to meet him). It could to life, this passion of pagans, at
arts to climax; to hear for love, a soul at horns, a mind at briers—to tumble
as weeds, as sickle’d at roots, this forest of monsters. I felt a spark, this inner generation, to
wonder of proximities. It could be nights, to morph as sunlight, that outer
association; where souls perish, as to flourish wisely—forever at pride to see it;
that mystic heart, those dark demons, that mental triumph; to war again, this
cycle of souls, while fevered as frantic fires—this wave of fools, damn near
alive, sitting at segue sorrows; at moons to hear it, to pierce those eyes, to
ask that question; but more those shadows, aflame an arc, chiseling a
nightmare—as picture perfect, this vest of rubies, to culture as living
forever. (I was gone, Love—alive, Love, as racing, Love; this furious feeling,
at bibles for secrets, offending myriads; but never this, as ever that, this
song of dungeons); to feel a heart, or more a vessel, as less illusions—those
curious dreams, to channel through visions, as moving electrified—that casual
ache, to remember a gesture, too clever for self—this world of passions, as
graphic mystics, floored to dirt that prayer.
It could be us, a daughter to a father, a mother to a son;—as floating
pigeons, to watch a tumbler, to stitch for music.
