Dear Precious,

We come to silence, evil at roots, consumed by acrobatics: this paining back, this warlock inheritance, this mystic castle—as looming deepness, or poignant flagrances, so skinny absorbed by Life: this fueled feud, placating surfaces, while an anchor tugs into turmoil: as burnished souls, laughing by anguish, falling for heaving this relic spear.  It was Chinese love, or Japanese rice, struggling through Thailand—as New Zealand caves, and turquoise waters, our neighbor partaking of our delicacies: this Asian Power, this Negro Charm, this Blackness merging with Euro-Asia: if but perfection, this token escapade, this sweltering furnace as caged: our taboo cries, our moments to coffee, those similar sites as out-measured: as vocal pieces, unveiled and screaming, our veneers exposed by tyranny—this evermore gambol, this taupe pearl, our fantast phantoms: as died a segment, losing familiarity, our phantoms appearing at mirrors: this slight disdain, for one in self, while snug a scar upbraided by existence.  I picture essence, this fragile ego, this luminous centerpiece—as fulgent sanctums, or treacherous vices, a suture but adhesive tape—those watery falls, this London agony, our bleedings to outsoar our screams: such privy chaos, this friend as well-informed, arriving for protecting this fragile hurricane: to love as needing, while broken those months, to arise a smile shimmering glitter: as fresco passions, or cadenza climaxes, invested within this poisonous aria—as but a soul, conflicted by desires, at love a tender voice: those formless swivet(s), this inmost fortune, our mirrors becoming blatant: to wrest our minds, as demanding adherence, threshed by a series of mistakes: this verve waning, this smoke offensive, this succinct duality—where mothers are fens, imbuing daughters, while slipping into twilight; or reasons to live, exercised as specious, this battle for survival: as feeling deaths, experienced at truths, and those fatal responses: so anguish weaves, as steep this upheaval, wavering for needing to feel pure.  We’re tyro souls, afflicted by pythons, staring at transparent evasiveness: that crumbling invite, those perceptions to graves, this person holding for feeling lonely—this need for perfection, as offering imperfection, while ignoring this typical oxymoron—or inner paradox, that latent ulcer, those mental abrasions—as fighting for years, afflicted Alzheimer’s, headlong into affairs; as, nevertheless, this need to win, where truths discourage apologies: this hapless man, pitted in Africa, running with cheetahs, (but never fast enough to escape reality): our swanic inheritance, as soaring through channels, while affected through osmoses: this guileless session, those guilty travesties, this typical fawning while afore riches—to exclude prose, while frowning upon poetry, this thetic realization—as hating Love, while needing Love, this effulgent catastrophe.  

      

Dear Swan,

Your mother’s delicate, but established, a lantern to breezy spirits: this legacy dripping, this titanium liquid, this hummingbird at my door—this feeling of energies, this volt to songbirds, to see them flee in anticipation.  I laugh a fiddle, un-riddled for damaged, peering into this coming reign: our psychs to measures, our therapists to psychs, this method as underpinning realities: our daughters to wars, our grandparents vigil, this stepfather cooking his soul to flowers—as bent for wreckage, restored through childbirth, flying for horizons our brains chanting.  It ravishes hearts; this feud as grieving; this sickness as demanding such tortures: as God’s affair, crumbled for wholeness, to realize this steep resistance: as never forgiveness, where too much was given, this theologian at errors: insomuch, our scriptures, this need to read it, if but to lay claims on our controlling universe: that passionate arc, those rivets to aches, this brooch speaking—our inner demigods, floating to redeem infraction, at chorus this brook of spiders.