We live agonies, at breath our wishes,
amazed with passions: that featured queen, those rubric eyes, while cuffed by
social cries: that sculpted scalp, that European nose, that rubescent tongue—as
sung so far, those country sparks, at curses feeling so good…that English chin,
that wellic navel, those porcelain teeth: to come to life, those hands as
alleys, our knees groveling prayers: if but to die, as frantic feet, our ankles
locked in ecstasy; as jigsaw puzzles, such electric toes, those armoire legs;
but life is sweet, our clowns at prose, our pantomimes at poetry—this
enchantress scar, at harms his brains, at wombs a soul too delirious: as Zeus’s
arms, reaching into cadence, to affect a sudden tremor—that chest heaving, our
minds wheezing, our tragedies weaving—as cut to shreds, our mouths confessing,
our lips at retractions—to love your soul, as cold our night-eagles, while
cheeks become golden-red. I ache our
hearts, fiddling my ears, at thoughts concerning manicured eyebrows: or hard-won
necks, that waist to kill for, those shoulders so delicate a craftsman; indeed,
to deaths, whereas, to life, insomuch, this breath seizing hemlock: that
courteous hair, those tender sketched khakis, that blouse bleeding nectar: if
but a dream, I’ll perish this fiction, but love was life those days to dying:
that vast expansion, that mansion surveillance, those years seething for
misapprehension. I adore a page, our veins to stomachs, such as bone-marrow to
brains: our lungs your name; our muscles your pain; this heart-liver at works
to touch your smile: as warm a river, or dead an island, where it felt good to
realize delusions—that anklet adorning, those chains singing, that necklace with
pendants—as skeleton atmosphere, to imagine pure nakedness, where love has
chosen to adorn us: this inner make-believe, that crosswise fantasy, thus, to
grass, rolling, and spitting, while thrust into silence…those coins flipping,
our aches to sheet metals, our minds as purses bleeding our leather. It took hell for love, while blank this
heaven, to curse for falling looking at dungeons: such bold actors; such primal
evilness; this skirt a scentless odor; as change was heart-pangs, this immortal
growth, while words shift as tendons type…at tears for toughness, at strengths
for gentleness, this kiss to rain as engulfed but a second—that livid brain, as
border that essence, to come to buttocks, praising—if but as fools, our
colleges in session, to adore as driven this Celtic memorization—or angered a
Cross, as passed his deaths, to indulge in three-beats of infatuation: that
promise to horses, those birds by wires, this faint appeal as realizing
longevity—to curse with lights, as infused a scar, to dream as sought realizing
absence: those letters to sand, that sandworm feeling, that inner phone dialing
in vain…but love as sickness, or deliverance as myth, our marathon events—as
cozy observers, laughing in private, at violins feeling, “Just Say It.”
