We’re
seeing cloaks, after years of converse, after years of grudges; these fuse of
wits, at wars with self, this kef by chains that anchor: as desperate that
gravel, shoveled by intellect, kicked his cavity his heart; this arc of fools,
cultured by winds, at treasures that teasing vacuum. I’m seeing cloaks, this
phantom those wings, that canvas as terribly gentle: this ache by knives, that
trope for words, this person shifting arks. I felt it digging, seeping through
daughters, our loss to Labradors: if but this seed, those genes to Mozart— so
much to possess—as plates to feasts, or hands to cities, but oh, so much more.
Its crayon kisses—of midnight shojis—as petrified as daylight. Its lime
symbols—of mid-earth corrosion, to flourish into mansions. It’s a terrible
soul, as to breathe its equal, as two saw at Joseph’s ladder: that human sin,
as divine in texture, while to carry this mentality. I’m seeing cloaks, a
decade of thoughts, to abandon stalwart conclusions—as this for life, assured
of so little, this precarious chaos! I crossed a river, embedded in oceans, to
have leaped a continent. I saw an eagle, with swanic eyes, as living our sins;
to remember that style, while to pursue those corners, that thing that lives.
I’m seeing cloaks, to have formed opinions, as much more his mirrors; that
casual sin—inverted realization, as singing to centipedes. I saw it as error,
as never that moment, reeling so much in wisdom; to scribble art, this swan her
wings, those nights as mystic; while mother’s chosen, invested in humanness—our
ways frightening angels. I’m seeing clarity, affronted by thoughts, at wars the
extent of humans: to put us there, that difficult space, if but more the
research: as mere articles; or unpleasant nouns; or manipulated verbs: this
life of passions, but a second in time, a thought as a landmark. I held us,
empty, to capture adversity, to see as eyes watered: this feral calmness; or
wetless waters; or colorless ink-wells; that space in pictures, as forgotten in
time, wherewith, that unbearable motion; as tender to mercy, while cursed to
glory, our features pulling reason.
