It could be magic, this probing tone,
those zealot ants: this mile to miracles, this maddening shift, our antlers
kneeling anxieties—to tear with love, such agonizing elation, while years
become scientific—wherewith, those qualifications, that burgundy Bentley, our
dreams to cinemas: as lurking shadows, our inner wits, our minds tugging with
hearts. It could be lovely, or more wellic, a bed full of memories: those
geese to passions, our neighboring lagoons, our naming of squirrels. This mansion inside, plush, a thousand rooms,
our cellars but aging wines: that rhinestone lion, that thousand dollar
blender, this settee its inner compartments: thereto, our perfect shrubberies, this
maze to our forests, that sudden disruption!
It could to life, a rasp to our edges, fully engulfed: where voices are
music, as music is augmentation, while augmentation becomes excitement: those
white butterflies; that unreal disposition; this wrestling by literatures: if
but to panic, while retreating brains, to come to senses thrust into
wilderness. It was evening our kef or
morning our libation, becoming with passion quite religious. It was death our worries, those lascivious
months, our vatic spell: to roam as wildebeests, our deserts our groaning, our
laughs at destruction. It could be
visions, our watery canvas, debating our color-wheel—those splendid islands,
those rapturous pains, living as appointed therapists: those highways afar,
that city pine tree, those inches towards healing: as old incisions, becoming
mental liturgies, our needs to voice as songbirds. It could be love, our eyes that narrow gate,
while weaving, thus, our quilts: our sound oaths; our paragliding hearts; our
jazzy discourses—as would our lives, those visits to shrines, this art by
roses.
Day
II
I saw a dream, this casual spin, sinning
for holy adrift—those rocky lakes, that sylvan ark, those coppice charms—while
etched afar, this invisible hand, our days at visions by mid-tears—that erratic
chest-fork, those sporadic itches, by welts to cages as fled for frying: this
achy life, that achy friend, those waves cutting for nonsense. I said a dream, as if for perfect, as one
ever enchanted: this living again, whelmed by sickness, our guts vomiting
love—that ancient mystery, this six month sin, as ever our rebirths. I thought a feeling, as effervescent
sunshine, our bodies so naked as newborns: this rounded axe, sawing for
closure, our hats to breezy oceans—that far island, simmering in brains, our
midnight meditations. I took to running,
as clashed our excitements, everso to flying: that inner band-aid; those mental
treasuries; this impatient clamping—as driven a soul, to feel as living,
raptures as puffs of smoke—for love is wounded, so broken a dream, as panic a
subtle thought; to perish breathing, as but attributes, this intangible
weather-coat. I saw a dream, so tall a
scream, so short a stream: those gray lesions, infused with wisdom, plucking at
green blades; where passion engulfs, this walk so stern, a frog awaiting its
princess: those steep aches, that symbolic nursery, this planting as arising
but a petal upon a system—those stranded eyes, that kidnapped soul, this music
too afar to touch. I’m gripping lutes,
fiddling with guts, our brains afloat with essence: too see falderal, as
sensing life, to plead for a new reservoir: something beyond flying, something
without capture, something in this soul prone to worship: that loser winning,
that ache dissipating, this tern at busy palms—to avoid this curse, as casual
sin, while ambivalent concerning whatness:
this fancy penmanship, as centuries of sadness, while giving this feeling
about existence: such mystic expectancy, as ritual rapture, to finally breathe
again: this seeing while retreating, as inner pianos, agaze’d, while at steep
images: this furious living, while healthy a dream, to settle an unending proof.
