I
dreamt about crosses, such by flaming ankhs—sudden as sparks by Egyptians: that
welkin smile; that bleeding faith; our courage to crucify our caves: that
symbol of mourning; that casual catastrophe; our dewdrops as omens. I’m sick at
love, crawling by hearths, our dreams as fossils—such rich carbon, such brine
by wildness, as eyes wander through bones: that drippy breastplate; that magnet
harpoon; our seraph by fire a dulcet current: such sweat and grime; such odor
and appetite; by wretched chase that pace of arrows—accustomed his life, those
sphinxly suggestions, such resistant morality; to rapture mirrors, or shatter
windows, by faces to appear: that leering cry, that Harvard widow, such as
orphans at biblic retreats. I’m empty with fullness, and full with emptiness,
that impermanent cycle; to have those eyes, seeping by reflection, to know such
agony this wretched beauty: that fragile handshake, as ruined her perception,
our sunset years—to recoil life, a bullet by stars, our scars overlooked; as
craving love, this villain at funerals, such carnage our social justice: that
reflexive psych; that reclusive professor; as deep by public strife—or shorn
our lawns, that metaphysical, a metaphor for clear disaster; to amuck a heart,
traipsing by deserts, to gallop a fool for troubles: some type of art-form;
some measure of telic fire; some type of daughter she lived: that casual
catastrophe; as powder solidified; or that cringing outburst—where music
dances, as eclipsed at ballet, our rocket but a feeling. (I know for unknowing;
to sail abed a cliff; while peering at twilight screams; that cultic quality,
our agendas through hells, such with interests our bars: that jazzy disaster;
that triumph by misery; that mystic waning on experience—as such involvement,
this country of literature, while Cupid would to die that dream: our scudding
lyrics; that candle bleeding; that tub of petals: if but to live, or but to
outlive, those clockwork passions—as fueled by souls, while morphing through
monsters, our personhood redeemed through actions: that fatal cry, as shook our
mothers, while grieving such wretched eyes). I’m feeling humid; I’m scratching
flesh; such by nerves this gut of visions; that psych-lagoon; that cygnet-fire;
that swanic mystic—as mother peruses, sensing for foul-play, afoul a bundle of
metaphysics: that artsy ballad, as craved his dreams, to love by chase a word
to explode—that deep impact, as casual catastrophes, or illusions breathing
realities. I know a heart; so existential an ark; so soaked and stunned; that
ontic pressure, sliding by sleets, our volts as ghosts that haunt: if but to
fire, that elusive smile, as so gorgeous a soul: if but that one, as souls
respond, our legacy a shoe of young fledglings. I dare to music, this rivet of
sacrifices, our nails as metaphors; to die at love, as accustomed to living,
where to perish is breathing: that cloister of passions, as rebuked our
theater, at silence that violin stirring chaos: if but by dreams, this cagey
expanse, our nautical bottles; as cast to rivers, while carried to seas, our
sculptress as a young poetess—or life to meadows, this furious faculty, aloft
an endless fire; where imprints stagnate, as seldom for love, where crises
strike to uproot that Rake. (I’m filled with atmosphere, aloft a swan’s dreams,
a bit familiar with change; as once by mud, to rinse by divinity, while seeping
into existence: those private concerns, as floored by mirrors—that subtle
escape by brains; to filter images, at remorse by curses, as delivered to
wrestling—that trenchant friend, at once an enemy, to find us musing with
caution; that inner wind, at times a butterfly, at wretched metamorphoses; that
tragic dragon, at tears our eyes, to witness self afloat those trials: that
winter crying; that summer maniacal; our justice a web of repeats; to come to
towers, screaming that invisible soul, demanding such clearance).
