I Remember that We Can’t Remember

By grace this love, as shivering lightning, at membrance this zenic gene…as songs sung, or dynasties calling, at tender ligaments our stars; to chance beauty, or die grieving, by textures something soft and sweet; that miracle breathing, so strong a force, at silence our crowded rooms—where mothers nurture, while grinding sand, aloof by nature so close; as feeling purpose, but still anxieties, such closures by psychologies: this filthy cleanness, by abstract giants, that petite monster…as composed of screams, that dreamy shadow, as plural as time: to market chaos, shifting by empires, too intelligent for capture; to sing as song-volts, or whisper as song-cults, alive by methods as something dead.  (Our windows rattle, so close by brains, pitching our disasters; that interrogation; those thundering eyes; our tears to mastering gestures; that high acclaim, as churning silence, this festive event our arcs: our Decembers warm; our autumns cagey; our redheads facing stigmata; as deep in limbo, staggering by justice, too convoluted for a forward sentence).  I know so little, as conglomerate time, if but to harness each discrimination: those crooked patterns; that sincere mixture; this game to determine his silence…as fevers settle, constructing as witnesses, at gazes our faces without lights: if but to surface, our boxes to credence, our arias preaching penalties…as seeing thoughts, this manifestation—so unclear his pontiff waves…where pictures aflame, embedded in psyches, but so removed that last calculation…so heavy at memoirs, or reluctant to write, while hectic a fever—that woman’s voice, peering by legacies, a bit too evolved to find closure…this complaisant montage, this mental mishmash, our dreary eyes filled with divinity: if but to swim, this current of interpretations, while missing a plethora of information…as, nonetheless, relying on senses, condemned to senses, as furious as senses.  (It was ill to meet you…that curious condemnation…at once to define me: that deep charisma; as subtle as time; while quick for wars…that mystic hearse, as invisible texture, while singing we disagreed: to call him perfect; that academic stigma; or more to confusion inquiring of abstracts: to sense for delusion; working at paranoia; while structuring sensitive receptors: that delirious soul; peering at illusions; too subtle to claim concrete arts…but, nevertheless, we trail by markets, silenced by silence, at fires astray…this treble pulsation; our intimate ghosts; this circling of Alcatraz).