Hither by Wolves

I peak at silence, trespassing configurations, asking softly concerning love: this trilogy, those séance eyes, this taekwondo—as instruments reciting, or orchestras criticized, at torments avoiding soul-contacts: our lenses bleeding, our hands to decades, our loins fleshed with mercies.  I peek at auras, this jasmine-blue, our arenas fraught with lions: this warrior dying, as availed in last words, our Samson(s) pushing through hyenas—this sweaty temple, our ecstatic spines, this firry transmitter (that peevish psychologist, this threat to silence, our women becoming our reflections—to carry boxes, our trucks to gages, this adolescent first to hands throwing grenades: our Polycarp(s), our martial intelligence, this agency in Smyrna—as steep Ephesians, blind to cadence, filling with force this syrup by psychs: those naked rosaries, this cross flipping, such to darkness that incessant laughter: our maniacal jaguars, those gateway eyes, this hatch as cedar-wood-annihilations—while crafted souls, alienated from our tasks, falling into vicious beauties).  I limbo softly, meditated in essence, our brains drawing blanks: as concerned a soul, and, moreover, a lover, this position becoming frustration: our mechanisms weaning, this advice to passions, while lingering into fantastical regions: those pegs as darts, this feeling as smarts, while insecure secern’d by geniuses: that rabid sensei, those Asian eyes, those brimstone destructions—as fueled for fires, or flamed for fantasies, this fleece bleeding its furies.  I leak through violence, this nether-mother, at private sessions with profanities—this tug for ages, fleeing for flying, this fleet of firebirds: our suffering pits, this mental woman, our days to feeling this missing art…as arcs grieve, while sending messages, this person far too advanced to ignore…our pragmatic designs, or metaphysic nonsense, as, nonetheless, this maintenance by balance—as existentialists, reading Rorty, found for charged this gift of insouciance—if but to scream, our fatal paradox, at mornings dragged to showers: that swanic prayer, that mother’s fuel, our grandparents seated in meditations…[it trips a soul, to witness chatter, alone a pagan’s rooms]—this lighthouse abyss, this purgatorial enchantment, this flame as reaching into Dante: if but a myth, as sought a soul, peering for crawling into sunlight: that listening countenance, this wine as gentle, those bones to marrow as feeling insanities.  (I cry aloud, fumbling, El Shaddai, reaching into grim reapers—this memory data, as opposed to free clearance, as arriving while triggered as unbeknownst: those postern fields, this teak engraving, this sensational ear-verse—as cannons explosive, or canons determining, this vex in souls needing this luxury: this inner typo, this languid perdition, our suspicions while life is flowing: this great design, our tortured sanctuaries, this sacred seclusion—as never alone, our ceilings to phantoms, those creaks seeping into consciousness: this mirror laughing, this woman cringing, our rules becoming underworlds).  I felt nirvana, this craft as firmaments, this wheel spinning into existence: our nails dancing, our hammocks at stillness, this arch-ache keystone—wherewith, those rude gestures, as determined to sing, while others remained at peace: [this helmet secret, as needing to condemn, while beauty tugs, notwithstanding—those ocean roses, this shark to brains, our inversions as swallowed up-chucked to sands: indeed, with courage, this daughter as immortal, our fathers as scribbling details: our closet notebooks, that set of car-keys, this ability to unthaw steaks—as pure a suggestion, where weeds are treacherous, this force in souls loving for passions].