It
could to be, this gentle breeze,
alerted by tentacles—where winds are fierce, as moving mountains, where debris
is scarce: that country tumbleweed; those airs of perfection; those obvious misprints;
as casual friends, or targets of war, at love a pair of pigeons; were cherries
to blossom, or loquats to bloom, this uneasy adventure; as parading justice,
cloaked in marsh, this trial—a mile your passage. We would to love, this
version of love, acquainted with paradigms of love: to do as sought, or more to
do, this much to cry about nothing; as young at thoughts, or old at souls,
afflicted by subtle fits: that outrageous gesture; that palm of campfire; that
thirst for desires; while built to love, or broken to perish, this love as
listed newly: a fist of songbirds; an album our nectar; this shift in tenses; where
mothers ache, our father’s flame, while tears speckle valleys. We seek forever,
afraid of forever, this need for adrenaline; to pick at spots, while shedding
stripes, our rivers thrusting through cities: those daylight lemons; those
midnight plums; that mahogany trestle—afforded those graces, shifting through
gravel, afloat those segments in time. It came by treasures—those galloping winds,
where Elijah sat in patience: this centered faith; to find for closure; appealed
to by inner mechanics—as wildly lit, aflame at sores, this four-score love: as
brightly colored; this mauve flower; or magenta roses—disposed to lightening,
disposed to thunder, disposed to death;—our oats to futures, our androgynous
women, our portrait disregarding facts; this special living, where life is
speckled, as grays are there to challenge. Oh to flee, as more this love,
exhilarated by seas; where tides are rapturous, this bale of hearts, our tome
knitted in oaks; to find for fiber, this gilt as leaves, associated with
kindness; as sensing for touch, those precious eyes, adrift a cloud of swans;
to give such love, as to receive such love, where love spoke to gravity.
