Season Us by Infinities

We mourn Puerto Rico, as dying our instincts, fragmented and chartered: this glorious fury, as charmed her legs, a tear distorted her arms—that fatal reach, to alter personas, our countenances failing—that brave daughter, as slaughtered our brains, to infuse a mother’s dreams.  I’m sick to rivers, this vomit taste, our guts ruined by acids—that achy sensation, fraught with physiognomies, this pigmy pushing its tentacles: as rave-enchantments, this Asian physique, our Caucasian enterprises—as never by color, or ever by berries, our thoughts those romantic uncaged armors.  I’m feeling Spanish, at remote islands, revving engines through city traumas: that green torment; those sable-blue-eyes; our rapture a second debated through myriads—where strata becomes stigmata, this nail his wrist, our grandmothers crying.  I’m bedded fortunes, a relaxed savant, this plebian chasing: our terse motions, this sagic rune, those meteors arriving this faint explosion: as deposited flowers, this earth we enjoy, our frontiers screaming, "Jesus": to have that feeling, while neglecting lives, a sneeze as a warning symbol.  We plural infinity, as brave immortality, our daughters exercising new adventures: this woman dreaming, as enclaves her souls, this forbidding romance: our rhapsodic converse, as but an inch in substance, while forbidden from actualizations—at course his membranes, as excluded a fool, to become as love verses hate internally: this inrush opus, as fevered for dying, our Arabic women: to sense dejection, this battle of roses, at thorns pricking our fingerprints.  I picture red-waves, our imperfect paradise, this rapture through firewood;—as swinging rabidly, by sheer accuracy, to emote with passion that whirl-storm: as love would die, to arise a feeling, that instance a moment in time—where agony comforts, as brought to life, this fantast woman.  [We sleep in cocoons—propelled to die, garnished by inhibitions; this African queen, at tears a Danish brook, where love has arrived in shackles.  I canvas brains, this interior empiricism, at bits too far his admiration; that scratchy throat; that dry wine; this Cambodian shaman—at touch with fevers, a bit moisturized, fleeing for engulfed this smaze of zombies.  I gilt’d passions, at love a mystery, as never her insanity: that tacit design; that brant to love; this phrenic conglomerate—as torn for measures, those puce eyes, this emission of lights: as father died, a man of woes, struggling by lotic pangs.  They titillate us, absconding with hearts, this image our inner Washington—if but to breathe, as cleaving eternity, to argue our wrestles to sheets—those cagey aches, this maze that wept, our strangers by autumn reigns: as much wilderness, our Asian Americans, our Mexican survivors.  I portal through time, this chorus of temples, this beautiful flagon—as shorn his brains, peering at women, those intimate delusions; as, nevertheless, this shifted guilt, by fragrance a solitary room.  We mourn Africa, those militant children, this militia of adherence—to court with love, this fair invention, as living demented—those inner trembles, that shiver through lights, this plaguing by vice this covenant of existence.  I’ll come to terms, as chaotic a source, as purported a threat: those Indian bones, as haunted his house, at course to signal our afterworld; or languish daily, peering at internets, abated this feeling of major-reach: such webbed depression, as never his name, while sought for seeking: this missing of paths, as pain its dominion, while courage exults those leaping deer-eyes].