I trekked miles, decorated in memories,
seasoned in plural faces: this frantic arc, filled your charms, at tension to
witness some element of mercies—as casual tugging, this inner mis-fitting, our
daughters seated at oblivion—that vast valley, those wavy blossoms, our winds
communicable—as pigeons frolic, by acacia tyranny, where sap bundles into
multiple visions: such elegant graces, such believable features, such effusion
shattered by vanity. We tour by silence,
sipping symbols, peering at inscrutability—as easily sealed, or given to
ironies, utilized as satire for wailing eyes: such grave injustice, as never a
friend, while laughing he died sophistication—this web for tyrants, this seeping
head-cave, our pattern designed in bloody oases—to voice his mother, or to
inhale his father, our coffee stirred in bones—to harness his life, our wives
debating sincerity, at once a bit testy concerning young flamingoes—this attic
curse, this garret torture, as one grapples with innocent beauty: this flipping
of mattresses, this collar smudged, our scents blended as body oils seep into
wafting odors. I’ve lied his life, this
humble warrior, at intestines running for love: this endless vine, at tulip
petals, designed by rosy wings—as fleeing yesteryears, this permanent
congestion, our traffic hours to pure contemplation: that 405s, that 55n, this
excursion to Atlantis—those burgundy highlights, those midnight heels, that
particular vein that left calve: to venture his life, as never a dream, remote
to love but far that agony—as built to perish, as living his island, to come to
literature waving a saw: those brown spaceships, at flux his brains, that
augury sky-chisel—to voice insanity, as at love with ironies, to arrive
knitting soliloquies: our silhouettes, as falling into justice, our melic
heart-brains—this mother sketchy, as rebuking challenge, to come to belief this
vein pushing infallibility—that cry as obstinate, those ribs inverting, our
heaving sporadic lungs—as kissed a poetess, at love so gently, to soar as
naught those wings by glory: this lavish body, those fevered features, this
gait repudiating ownership—as men plummet, aroused through dungeons, so curious
eyes that distinguish tyranny—that inner cry, as liquid dreams, to awaken
reaching that lonely room: our webs to shadows; our shadows to alignments; our
alignments to freedoms harvested: that inner rooster, at fascination this rabid
bobcat, as two morph arising as one phoenix.
I could to die her, as to keep this paired-sanity, while speeding life
giving what I exude into literature: this vest toppling, our hearts to
concrete, our minds to abstract analogies: if but for purpose, to utter this
life, while mailed to this immutable self: that morbid architect, as orchestra
eyes, this masquerade fable—to touch by napes, our existential exile, so many
fragments as loquacious signs—to have that love, as warned of losing such love,
to want for purpose this radical infusion—that broken clock, as cemented at
noon, this sprouting of magnets…where angst becomes rivers, seated in
pool-skies, inverted a scream—to wail evermore, as cried a delicate light,
where love bent for perfect that disappearance: this pitch black fluorescence,
as neon projections, while ethnic a dream scouring through Europe—Our English
waffles, our crèmes with ice, our terrifying objection to neglecting existence:
our chestnut trails, our eyelashes fraught with dusts, our dusky skies—as
living motifs, this familiar oak tree, this pond so often our impressions—where
mothers vanish, while daughters stream by torch, as fathers split into halves
debating this paradox: as never this love, while ever this love, as never such
sound reaching sky-caprices.
