We
lose something, poised as analytical, while fevers fly—that type of dullness,
as camouflaged by details, a bit to robots our brains—this soul flitting,
contained as wildness, while fire becomes constructed—that iron kiln, that kiwi
with grapes, our spirulina with apple juice; as lives a daughter, that treble
heart-line, our fiddling as to structure conformity; for something’s lost, that
synaptic bus, fleeing into a cocoon: that respected psych; that cautious
professor; our doctors to edgy weekends.
I’m hearing noise, this shattered image, such as shards whisper
lies—this achy forgiveness, so far inverted—that man but deserts screaming our
names; where echoes groan, such as making love, to think so much he thought but
naught: that closet of ghosts, if
ever they knew, our perfect address but messy penmanship; those years to ruses,
if but a kitty outdoors, those terrors but midnight meows—as cultured success,
to mold a brilliant sculpture, where pillars become constructed shadows;
hereto, such as agonies, those particular pills, that particular therapy—as
running through senses, immune to humanity, crawling near a perfect portrait—as
dreaded science, this buffing of windows, while passions cling to intentions. [We
gain successions, always to nectar, too inviting to persist—that organ wailing,
that saxophone crying, our cymbals depressed—as murky our waters, or alive our
brains, while fumbling through activities: a little that way; a carnival this
way; that list of museum captions—as lives our souls, this reading of romances,
our hopes by dreams that stranger’s eyes: if but to perish, as more to live,
accustomed to wakeless hours—our churning hearts, to awaken concentration, our
memoirs purporting borderline madness—as kissed a lizard, to construct a
prince, while egos were flaring electricity: that casual ache, disturbed by
noises, while forced to leave our cocoons—this trekking through cities, our
colors as magnetic, this panting breath—as occasioned a scream, while gripping
bloody lights, our bodies clutching and releasing—that tiny creature, so
infused with joy, our hopes to love void of suspicion—that watchful hour, as
resting through fantasies, so captured a prayer to temples—those bold eyes, as
humble a heartbeat, fleeing for flying to return with tears: that prodigal
sunlight; those welkin toes; our days to fire—where love is activity, while
patience is kindness, where lies erupt into abrupt confessions]. It comes to
loving, this peaceful, chaotic art, where agonies dwell in membranes—as adored
a child, watching as moving, where said child becomes a miracle: that instance
of charms, as effused with feelings, this thread holding its parts—as deep
friction, so born a tear, to debate by hours our constellations—that bleeding
star, that satyr moon, our adulterous sun—as felt an eclipse, where life is
won, while reality sheds its garments: that hectic neckline, as ablaze our
sky-center, while to conjure this terrifying war-storm: our coffee coughs; our
cloves by tear-lights, this thing for designer chaos; indeed, to drumming, this
thrumming of winds, as bees hum to caroling—our faraway hassles, to prescient a
mood, encapsulated but spinning .
