At
love so gently, by Cabbala’s arc, those swanic eyes; as torn so harshly,
abashed in rivers, our deaths as caricatures: that rising yesteryear; those
mahogany tulips; that daisy by temples that mane—our cried mistakes, peering at
professors, dying that ache of love; as rich confusions, this line by colors,
that rich inadequacy; or acidic tongues, as toxic wings, forever by caustic
moons—that tragic grave, our gothic charms, that trickle of science affronting
religion. Its arid futures; as desert deers; staring by kef our ante: that
mystic rivalry; that damp envy; our chorus to arcs our violins. I met a fluke,
abandoned to treacheries, as said fluke prayed: so casual a storm, those
symbols as bolts, such pegs thrust through palms: The Mount of Olives; The
Mount of Sinai; our prose rifting through Jerusalem—to summons eyes, or secern
a distant love, while aching to blue shivers—that cryptic star, as enjoying
laughter, but a flicker to third eyes: that mother watching; that father
pacing; our grandmothers cooking stews: if but for passion, that gory love,
embedded in stitches as simplicities: our casual aches; that blackened voice;
those prints by fingers that brain; as deep to live, a bit infatuated, while
taken courage as theologians; to walk that plank, or to render that plan, our
deep abuses; that crooked atmosphere, as legends through time, abashed through
deserts: that ape grinning; that woman coaching; our history as different—while
sensing danger, so wild by fires, as more that reason to ascend. It comes with
pains, those tragic years, bottled in mother’s voice—as deep to crumble, by arc
this violence, at pictures to paint a normal life: that fabulous daughter; that
beautiful wife; that son as endearing his soul; that watchful eye, to deny a spirit,
while screaming at arid mirrors. We know this color, fading into failures, a
bit too content with unknowingness: that beige Bugatti, racing through Africa,
as symbolized through ghetto dreams; to pardon ourselves, while steep in
shadows, such morbid attitudes; to love destruction, as far familiar, as
opposed to flying into foreign freedoms; but more expansion, that jimpy ether,
as permeating our inner sanctums: those gorgeous swans; those welkin stripes;
our minds to antiquities: if but a fever, to race through arcs, our souls at
storehouses—to fly so gently, embraced by harshness, singing as sung our
histories.
