We’re
living science, encased in religion, fueled by legends; that remote feeling,
those treacherous islands, our swans entrenched in moodiness: that liquid
furnace; that tiny box; that cedarchest filled with antiques; to live for love,
as love would hide, while perusing from tyranny: that clogged drain; those
burgundy prayers; that countenance at shiver by radiance: that keen psych; that
cryptic dance; that professor rushing into battles: (so many prayers, pictured
as islands, roaming our cultic dreams; to harness pressures, that cold
beverage, while flickering through portals). I wrote a song, as emailed to
priests, where a nun sung unto glory: that beige scream, listening to Grammar,
afar a scar that desert melody; to drift afar, as nigh to closeness, this kiss
as eyes awakened: that beautiful queen; that torrent of emotions; that logic
squeaking into dissertations: that casual backlash; that foreign night ghost;
those phantoms forging addictions: if but a dream, I’ll fly forever, at mercy
to carry our swans: that cagey music, that peeking insanity, that torture by
arts our classic madness. (I met a dove, such beauty to flourish, while steady
at un-sureties. We gazed in hearts, at such that caustic wind abashed by this
turn of justice: that infant crying; that father racing; that mother while at
deep sorrows—to culture by voice, this crawling seed, our grandmothers dying by
aids: if but that song, that glorious interior, our women crying by fires—that
locomotive, digging for reaching, that rocket by armory—if but to chance, that
inner force, as conflicted to fly: that arc at motion; that treasure as
singing; that orchestra as moving into cadence: that cryptic rhythm, to love by
arts, flipping for flitting into furies). By far to poesy, feeling such
features, perusing through Brimhall—while sipping coffee, our ashes upon tiles,
that cigar a metaphor by existence: that cultic woman, by tears a gem, affected
by fevers: this treasured secret, that gilt’d stigma, our wings undergoing
baptisms.
