I give Us Eternity, this field of marigolds,
this place tormented: our inking insights, this barracuda, and our remora
instincts: this inner clamping, this sky-turquoise moon, this graying sun: our
days to wine, those steep suggestions, those immortal brains: as richness
inverted, seeping through flesh, to possess that countenance: our mental
agonies, this fist full of vitamins, this intellectual genius—while holding
battle, this wretched love, this wretched sentiment—as kissing gently, this vat
of insecurities, or this mug of shattered shards. I ache to exist—this pyramid of black wealth,
this horizon of Jewish warriors: our place in time, our days in chambers, and
our resurrection: this piecemeal study, this academic reach, or this reachless academic: those tales bleeding, this
thing with weight, or our eyes lovingly excusing weight: this man to dreams, to
share with insanity, while too sane for public socials: our passions for
mountains, our bedroom dust-bunnies, or our days to feeling lazy: this cursed
beauty, our needs to touch, our wilderness collecting our inheritance: this
magical woman, this place in cultures, this psychological soothsayer. We dreamt a castle, this vest of infants,
this daughter to clever wits: those Latin books, those Grecian stories, or
those German Philosophers: as men sheaving, or women sprouting jewels, or tending
to something needing attention: our shoebill gazes, this rainbow planet, or our
dreams coming into fruition: to hold with arts, our static abstracts, to then
realize something’s askew: this missing tumbleweed, this depleted wisdom, or
this feeling as if strategies are too young: that man to his post, our children
to studies, and our grandparents in good health: this puffing chimney, this
wildlife dance, or this asymmetrical knowledge: our agony bones, this emotional
state, and such desserts by envy. I aim
for noon, to touch her eyes, to kiss her brow: this intimate soul, feeling
vulnerable, and losing this macho persona—as never he was, but this gentle
soul, a bit heavy with life: this course for passions, this passionate anger,
or this woman pointing towards newness: as cavalier souls, a tear enamored with
music, or enamored with Urania: this tall creature, or this half to gods, where
it felt good to exchange with time: our supernovas, or our appearing aromas,
while seated so close to passion. I must
confess—such abracadabra, where keen
senses spoke your name: indeed to mystery, our eyes to sudden moisture, or our
days to needing to do justice: this crippled genius, this astute student, this
creative poet—where mother collapses, feeling a tinge pragmatic, where her
heart ruptures into goodness: our intuition,
our fatal scars, our remembrance through time—those amazing effects, this
winter’s ceremony, or those quite insightful psychs: to know this ledger, or
possess this leisure, while evaluating this labyrinth: at rivulet screams, this
axis of tyranny, by such as purposes I can’t decode: this failure in souls,
this pivot of thoughts, this soon to departure: this craving sunlight, or
remarkable abilities, or this sparkle if but those seconds: moreover, disaster,
to have such preciousness, or to relinquish such preciousness: those laudable
souls, this laudable woman, those laudable dreams—where intention becomes
opaque, or our fireplace speaks Spanish, or our aches resolve through Roman
Estates: that mental telescope, our mental treasures, or our mental infatuations:
those bold scholars, those trenchant psychiatrists, that particular
psychologist: to have our fills, at cadence with fantasies, where successful
women are associated with successful men: that ache bleeding, this sublime
culture, or this sudden flutter—as flickering fools, at such distrust, while
believing ourselves at par with calibers: this cryptic religion, this rousing knowhow,
or this woman too proud for ordinary: (indeed, this saying by hearts, to glance
by gods, or this funeral of empires: that sentient dynasty, this sentient soul,
or this agriculture by brains—as men floating, while filled with spectacular,
to flit and fly, while scudding existence—this thetic woman, this trestle of
diamonds, this groggy sensation—as living for lavish, this weft in weaving,
this vizard of hazards—while mother sleeps, her child nursing, this tremendous
affectation.
