It becomes us, these sachets by Existence,
our linguistic gestures: It suffers us,
these quasi-corrections, this perfect chaos—as awake and drifting, afforded
this feeling, while semi at tunnels—our syrup emotions, this melting into
colors, this simplistic address: as agendas dying, this mixture of
architecture, this edifice leaning, [those dangerous feelings]. It was sundown, this quiet furnace, our
lenient disorders: to desire dreams, as if pure satchels, while convinced this
essence purported as romance: those crackling twigs, this frontal nest, our
days adrift our seas: to soar by fantasy, at shearers by Reality, while trekking this quickened trapeze: this man to
gorillas, signing to confessions, a sandcastle weary those screams: our sweaty
mane, those subtle scents, our blended perfumes. It becomes life, this beanbag resistance,
while musing through labyrinthine prose: this season to sights; those
ruminative features; this second our ghosts appeared—as a man thinks, while so
he becomes, knitting tribunal complaints.
It’s been grueling, adjusted by typical nightingales, where passions sit
within: those rays to puzzles, this
undergirt’d frenzy, this cool composure.
(We dine at noon, flipping checkers, at laughs without reasoning: this
modeling yacht, this set of vases, that
neighboring pigeon coupe: as symbols sail, as water converses, as ambiance
triggers emotions: this need to capture, as afar an island, while feelings pour
into diaries: our bellies growling, this whisper to essence, at lakes those
rippling passions: while nibbling ginger, or fiddling cucumbers, at mirrors
this ladybug: our jetting hearts, this miracle enchantment, this calming
adventure: asleep our terrors; awakened our thoughts; such keen observations). Indeed, by aches, this unfulfilled cloud,
while fuses burst into temperaments: this booklet raging, our margins
congested, our ink-pens reclaiming passions: if but to sing, as sought such
cadence, as tender those chirping eyes: such moistened soil; or sediment
frontiers; our oaken windmills. We
banter softly, this world by Dreams, cozy
a feeling distressed by souls: this London eyelash, those belly-dancing seams,
this self so radical to cuffs: our Caribbean sidewalks, such portrait
perfection, such visualized engulfment—as if for concrete, this abstract
reality, where patience destroys this keeping by measurements: our tugs and
pulls, our inner dialogues, this freshet of admirations: to grip cloth, this
handkerchief to ponds, our toes whet with delightments. (It becomes florescence, this agile
pigmentation, while designing our color-wheels: this turquoise brook; that
mahogany swan; at glances to witness pale concentration: our bodies drained,
this kite afloat, this farm ten miles north: this acacia scent, this sunshine
tulip, our symbolic refinements: at teas with sorrow, overwhelmed by
unrealities, stationed at that challenge for leaping: this gripping by winds,
this fire dripping, our sulfur hardened by expectations: to live as souls,
admiring controlled legacies, at fevers concerning wild excitement: that
burgundy bunny, as dyed weekly, this lagoon of baby chicklets: if but our
psychologies, immortalized as perfect, this place in chaos demanding
order). We come to cliffs, retreating
with kindness, devastated by this churn of music: this candle flaming, this
woman negotiating, this feeling absorbed by silence: our silver thunder, this
light tinkering, out trinkets serving as participants: if but to sails, as lives
our souls, by comforts dispelling dreams.
