Children are smitten, where adults passion panic, as graphic insanities—to courage penmanship,
ironic a curse, to reckon surpass thoughts—that inner General, that lieutenant’s flag, this scarf our neighbor’s blood—to
seize fear, as internal castles, our
fortresses crumbling. I’m jaguar eyes,
or butterfly wings, a ferret on her deathbed—where language blurs, while
gripping Light, our pledges to return;
those morbid whispers, as awakened by chants, something foreign his skin: that
bloody towel; that inner grasshopper; that cygnet at distresses—herewith, our
bones rattling; our cages to, Alleluia; this
controversy concerning fires—that beige eyelid; that flaming red mane; this box
of tea-powder—as powered his brains, this a.m. thump, that mahogany
air-flight—where random his essence, those
existential beauties, this meta-sky
river—as afloat his thoughts, to desire flesh, as inverted a psychotic loner;
therewith, this inner daughter, to pass but secrets, our legacies uprooted by
spines: those wine-shaped eyes, [that potential for dying], this miracle by
DEVOTIONS—or more our soul’s reservoir, at fires that claim, as divested
speaking to itself; this mirror crying, our Oms
at play, this self in persons bleeding its rivalries—as cultured a fool, or
less a monster, this wrangling with leviathan—a zebra’s calmness, a jackal’s
wits, this fever as settled into dementias—those inner blue symbols, that
bluebird’s agility, that rhino’s anger—where said a curse, has embedded life,
this inverted miracle—where nomads explore, this keen terrain, seated alone at
whispers this bush: our SPORADIC
attractions, our fluttering feathers, as rare as golden catfish—while touched
at scars, our dragon-breath waters, that exiled sand-river: this spidery
feeling, as never to fruition, while proud to utter, I thank you: that outer landscape, that indelible spirit, this
eraser buffing frantically—as outwitted dearly, those lava-eyes, our Tibetan
cries—insomuch, to panic, or curse existence, our birthdates a symbol of dying. I laugh to heal it, this riveting fraction,
our apostolic nightmares—that warrior of sights, to pause elation, immersed by
Catherine—that Siena dream, that shoebill’s gaze, that tenderness so arid with
courage—if but to perish, as lives our
Minds, our elephants kicking at earth: that casual pain, to water his eyes,
that immortal connection—while
dueling for days, our action tusks, reading E. E. Cummings—that miracle
paradise, as embedded in souls, this European ankh; to come with wails, these
tales of love, where never but a glance: (this blue whale, that inner Kalahari,
those leopard eyes, that cheetah’s image); indeed, our cosmic frustration, our
tiger stone woes, this saber’s tooth—as aflame a curse, blessed at bleeding,
our compassionate refusals—or more abrupt, as never a thought, to seat our
feelings with partialities.
