It’s you, your unborn children, while
ministering to spirits: this reckless fear, this ram in thickets, our trials to
hereafter—that casual appearance, thrust with silence, peering at crystal
wings: our music sweetness, our lively concerns, our Egyptian inheritance:
those Asian cries, that European smile, this rich molasses: our shames dying,
our hearts to clouds, this sky-berry charm: to ask by joys, this journey to
swans, our souls preaching to Caleb: that warrior grit, this courage’d name,
our mystic allies: if but those arcs, as explosive pyramids, while demanding
God’s justice: this inner psych, this resistant child, that racist therapist—as
winking with scythes, this outer ruler, at consensus speaking love: that Grecian
library, that Roman cathedral, where a spirit swooped. I adore swans, this inner thief, to sneeze
while flushing dusts: this hexagram, this silent sketch, where lives were
purchased: those tall tales, this hatred for machination, this acceptance for
humans—while deeply at caves, this irritated reply, favored for insistence: to
return to Spirit, as Spirit enchants, whereto, Spirit returns: that dark
secret, our human efforts, our desert theologians: (your unborn child, this
valley rainforest, our bio-devices:—this inner gadget, our mothers’ apparatus,
this kiss to flights as wishing Us truths:
at currents floating, awakened in body heat, sipping for crazy this daily
misnomer: those cries seething, this steep elation, our calmness faced with
hectic brainstorms: those mechanical movies, our diligent microcosms, this
ancient caiman: [at dear frustration, facing his weaknesses, laughing while
mourning this alley of rivers]: that ball bouncing, this cinema enterprise, our
apprentices outwitting existence: this small baby, at arms reaching, tugging
for yanking his beard). I pet a dolphin,
some type of sadness, our hearts flushed by ghosts: this red swan, this blue
haven, our parents strutting through temples: this wild essence, those wild
designs, to act as tormented against societies: those welkin volcanoes, this
racy tornado, this slow-paced prayer—where mystics cry, as feeling resistance,
while angled this daily reminder: moreover, this precious seed, this witness
laughing, our carnivals bleeding palms: that disputed clown, our messy makeup,
this L’Oreal catastrophe.
