Their
at tears, so still but fractions, at streams our passions; that beautiful womb,
such bare perfection, such youth to brightness—as born delicacy, or torn
majesty, at treasures those arts—to stencil a castle, as dreamed his mind, that
luxurious river; as gravid nuances, as crazed mailmen—that missive missing its
mark—where raveled a garden, those bleeding gardenias, as alive another soul:
those bold gestures; that warming gaze; those deep infractions…to lie but
hearts, as breaking with truths, our shivers as mystic boulders; as rapid
fireworks, berserk a feeling, that last tryst, as so guilty that inner
ethic—while tried such distance, aloof to phones, our calls straight to message
centers: to pine by cranes; attempting grandeur; this piano as drilling heartbeats;
as pure catastrophe, our mother’s apple, our father’s contagion: if but a tear,
I’ll cry a river, if but that delicate palm: such ruby flesh, as flushed and
pink, our terrors by carpets grieving: to know your hand, as but to dreams,
affected as one living: that spider but symbols; that ostrich as sinning; for
life sung perfection—while hearts run, trekking by dells, at meadows by
tortures—that fabulous cry, as Tarzan aches, afforded one Pocahontas—our
glamour as bleeding, to see such eyes, if but to meet again: falling by graces;
shivering as sinners; amazed by flames our drifting cadence; to bawl by
textures, this inner mystery, as affairs become lethal; to want a dream, but so
afraid, while to cherish that perfect life; as flaming dejection, this field of
lovers, chasing by winds jasper eyes; to flip a pill, if must we live, as kids
running to mother: imagined a scar, by exhilaration, calling about a thousand times—that contemned machine,
while watching our voices, fingers to eyes that carpet; to drift poetry, that
deep extraction, by mere a rhythm: our inner music, that gravid signpost, our
participation; as living grief, while singing Dixie, so blind those selfish
eyes; to see us not, while gravel shatters, as glass is carved with images:
insomuch, as life; insomuch, as feelings; insofar, as dying: this inner imp,
that morning fall, our doors as pure
sanctity. I’ll die a sinner, at wants for life, by far adrift to silence:
pining by arms; comparing fantasies; a man burning missives.
