Night Wine

We admire nuance, as living for deaths, this psych a breath his tears: our subtle disgusts, offsite’d by wisdom, to see with life those ghosts: those myriad feathers, our daughters to caves, this alarm ringing by pheasants: our rabid charm, this disoriented vibe, such to cadence staring at psychoses: that mother living, as dying an ache, to come to catharses: those pebbles warming, this heater freezing, our fans spinning chaos: as friends yield, or rave with indifference, to ask with shame this inner contention.  (We see cycles, pulling psychotics, while ostracized by cadence: this rifted heart, this arc to winds, those woodland miracles: our facial chills, this riveting virus, our possessed as acting overseers: [where truth is lies, as lies are graves, this sentence to Alcatraz: our Feds cringing, those compounds dancing, those cultic scissors]: as cutting tones, while laughing insanely, to come to tiles kissing invisible crayons).  I met a youngling, fiddling with a monster, while impressed upon self to become a stranger: this yellow ribbon, that winter’s wine, this casual global warming: to curse in private, while nearly a scar, a bit too beautiful claiming monogamy: as sure to giggle, while confronting breaths, this death to pass adventures.  It was hell’s justice, this radical convergence, seated in cells reading Dead Sea Scrolls: or locked in rooms, revved off of ecstasy, to lose conviction in close to a second: those rivers running, that vandal thrashing, this gut to silence condemned as Lucifer: those tall tales, this pushing upon backs, as seraphim(s) floated afar Isaiah: our lamentations, our Jeremiah(s), this section in brains recruited by manic measurements: that woman chancing, as dances aloofly, while change becomes this therapeutic: our lights to psychs, this reeling psychologist, those interests in signals bleeding symbology—as rooted vexes, or irritabilities, to sit at peace carving incisions: those trees severed, those dreams excavated, this angry approach to sex—as dead men, living through cavities, at rest a decade into transference.  I met a gem, this perpendicular disdain, at perils to resist an ancient sister: those cabinets fleeing, as exposed to winds, this panel dripping termites: if but to perish, as lives attraction, while angered a tad to scars: that indifferent feeling, while to miscalculations, thereto, a bit enrooted to flames: that staggering night-light, this temperate minion, our angular sacrifices—as blatant arousals, or torn frustration, our days at edges wishing to saw about anything: while chipping at wood, or gnawing ginger, or moving just fast enough for spirit to follow: that deep secret, a man to his journey, while Feds laugh a scar.