I
rub her forehead, dreaming her cadence, aloof, feeling sorrows—as tomorrow
screams, this seal unfolded, our rapture fleeing during climaxes; that bold
texture, those felt volts, our audible at low frequencies: those cyan cries;
that orange vest; this construction as ruined our days. I invest a legacy, peering at reflections,
our grandparents alone that steep understanding—where mother shifts, that
bride’s gown, our scarves bleeding scarlet—that crimson Keri, those horrors at
rivers, this Freddy Krueger—as poets vie, at terrible cadence, to perish those
sentences reaching our Pons. I fail to
feel, those treacherous scars, at sudden this gut as torn asunder; as,
thitherto, those inner images, to break with silence unable to speak; this
primitive mind, at rich aphasia, a tear too mystic—if charged our brains, as
standing trial, to aflame that tribunal—that hand reaching, as broken mirrors,
such as shards forming his dreams—this segment in self, to realize deaths, at
permanent cycles: our daughter’s flute, that lute to life, this leaping for
captured—that broiled chop, those blueberry wines, this person some to
thought—as chilled in fires, or fires to icicles, as a furnace nears Atlantis:
our cut lobes, this genetic fracture, our Jewish screams; to reckon he died,
our inner overseers, that woman a scar at beauty’s planet: indeed, vexation,
this academic, our curriculum bleeding our intellects—to fancy love, as garden
hips, as grasshopper thighs—where lusts drift, to seize his dreams, while
frightened this curriculum called, Distance: this movie riven; that grave by
pillows; our fathers at purgatory; where priests appear, at love with nuns,
this fever at treasures aloft Rome; therewith, this steep attraction, if but to
ruin life, our days knitting lexicons—as flowing freely, those eyes his brains,
this woman his flames—as cold to music, enlove with aches, to chuckle while
vomiting passions—that steep lagoon, that Daffy Duck, this privilege afforded
our Bugs Bunnies—to vamp by credence, this credulous death, our inverted
rapture—where never she could, as ever she thought it, while at shames to
rebuke it. This heart to screaming our arcs to bleeding our violet testimonies—as blank our
meadows, forever our sins, our closets fraught by devilish hosts: if but to
laugh, while sipping cognac, our evils pursuing
our dreams: that amazon woman; that skinny model; that sophisticated eagle—as
torn for falling, while loving for leaving, at tears to palm our
scriptures—that laughing prayer, at deep communion, our mirrors flailing these
golden eyes—at greens his venture, that vex abed his lies, to awaken her arms
aback her brains—to die, that Wiccan’s moment, at mothers asking
permission. It comes with chimes, this
social attraction, while invested in dying—that beauty wreckage, our addict
ambitions, this literature as moving occipital lobes—to cherish those arms,
that reach, dreaming, our seconds to innuendos—as more by life, to return those
thoughts, while tugged at several valleys: that outer overseer; those wafting
tulips; this obsession he vanished. [I
must return, as never he left, but bodies to art, our pure expressions]: that
tiny infant, as full perspective, our dreams sacrificed; indeed, to existence,
our riveting experiences, to peer at legality, screaming: that angel softness;
those tender elements; our rifts settled in copulation; as died our fears,
invested with prowess, to come to deaths pleading her resurrection.
