I
love our turmoil finding something
precious while traits die to
considerations; this mystic moon, our gloom to shadows, this woman he couldn’t
parish—as born a vandal, while becoming human, this clove that spark—as teary-eyed
enchanted, flexing through rivers, our daughter as a protégée—to fathom not,
this form of entrance, where humans form through resistance: that ruby kite,
those hectic grandparents, this love showered in diamonds—those gingerbread
cookies, that yogi watching, our proverbial inheritance; to cut salami, even a
ghost of cheese, spread over unleavened wafers—that sudden thump, this internal
music, as courting to see that smile. I digress, seated at this fever, to love
this space in time; where violins crave, this immortal passion, to have
excitement ten hours into prayer; at tours with love, this vanilla chip, our
pistachio delicacies—this mix of darkness, infused with psalms, at tyranny
pleading affections: that contradiction, when sectioned near surface, to imagine
this steep affectation—where husbands cry, as flying through abysses, our
horrors conflicted by sky-roads. I
love freely as platonic our
inversion while anger ensues—this
colony as historical our pride as
Africa our libraries as Europe—whiles
torn contagions, or radical attractions, to want that fatal climax—or thrust by
spears our ultra sunrise where swans cultivate immortal fountains. I ache with violence, laughing at our
overseer, made humble that second through loses; that devilish compassion, that
immortal psych, those therapists fleeing through sky-clouds—as one to cherish,
or one to perish, this internal as sublime: that casual death, this finger to
purpose, that woman as so much our mother: if but those years, to meet unsaid
faces, while giving until death inverted—I’d love suspicion, those carnival
conventions, our hours to dying through rebirths; but said is fiction, this
convict of souls, by aches this theologian; where mother cries, as forbidden to
love, this space in souls cleaving to that kind gesture. I love this swan as needing to give where affections become motivations; this
ambitious troll, at mother with silence, our contagion to excavate Death
Valley; this scroll of souls, that Zenist watching, our mystics thrusting this
brain—where poets flourish, too concerned with proprieties, at Sophia with
vengeance. I’ve died abandonment,
scooped by psychs, as a tare too involved with Wisdom: that cagey friend, as
electric this heart, while mornings become ritualistic; that psychotic feature,
that manic man, this portrait arriving through sheer affliction; to see you
dance, free of turmoil, while at love with cadence; wherewith, a scar, this
power through souls, to gestalt a tsunami.
I caught attention, to plant a blessing, while refusing to watch us
perish: this edgy mystic, this crying swan, this mother too sacred to die. I love conventions, built in sands, our
terror-dome sprawled before onlookers—as pure insanity, this reaching Wisdom,
while grandfather plots for happiness: that tickling gift; those flurries as
jewelry boxes; that armoire inverted with a curse—if but to live, this hearted
event, while at courage to battle demons.
I know a friend, as never a thought, while quick to warfare; that inner
dimension, as crazed a lunatic, too poised to discern; while hearts flourish,
this mystic music, abused for bruised singing divinity. I know a man, afflicted with lusts, but
terrors to hearts infused with Jerusalem: this kleptomaniac, this scouring
through graves, our ambitions bleeding successions: if but to perish, this
wealth as grieving, our daughters moved to redemption: our achy addicts; too
infused to perish, while love dangles pleading rebirths—where mothers mangle,
those steep illusions, as to guide a child’s visions.
