…if we died in Egypt

…so casual fire, this hazel resonance, those terrible green eyes: such to perish, as blatant as midnight, torn so much: to adore for centuries, this maniac love, so chanced to die: our blue patience, a fist of books, our interior casualties: this dying adulthood, this goddess manic, as alive and cringing: our bolder cries, our deceased revelries, about our faces: those black moons, those dear sunbeams, to arise and feel volts—or shiver or perish, or to reuse something sketchy: our bowels crumbling, our winter Sade, or Casanova upon repeat: to converse a second, to redeem something fractured, to move music: those eyebrows, so serious about pain, so indebted to college: but more my life, and more this daughter, and death our guts: as rebuilt manics, as walking anomalies, as Frankenstein musings—those tall trees, those few acorns, this radical chipmunk: so casual with sorrow, so beautiful with pain, so exotic, so passionate: our shivering jaws, our scratchy earlobes, our steep eczema….     I die for love, I’d rebirth for love, but love is so schematic: this dream aborted, to possess, Love, this fuel so revved and reborn: as accursed for symbols, so cursed it’s lovely, so involved it destroys: this Jewish horizon, trying while pulled backwards, where screams seep into public squares: as saving face, or disgraced deeply, where Love presumes a deep attraction: our guts ruined, our intestines by Europe, our cavalier dreams: if but to perish, if but to arise, so thrust so casual so deceased: our revving concerns, our naked emotion, to dress a casual feeling: those beanies, those scarves, those khaki slacks: to redress feelings, to skirt a heartbeat, to relax a muscle: our Santana enterprise, our Maria muse, at adored frequencies: but Love is Rihanna, too sexy for cameras, too erotic for touching: our green souls, our novitiate vowels, at nuns speaking in Italian: so seductive, those rubescent thighs, to grip, pass for deaths, or repent with Satan: our guts laughing, our religious life, to go too deeply: this glow-flicker, this wife dream, while we feel whorish but holy.     …it comes with ages, this iceberg mentality, too casual upon a scream: dying like Jesus, at steep rebirths, our right-paths laughing: to rejoice in Passion, to adore our Ghost, so steep in turmoil: those eyes giggling, those eyes giddy, if but those eyes returning melancholy: to adore possibility, while relaxing with rationality, as needing this lie if but to breathe: our home-life, so addictive with sins, where we ruffle through forests: this remarkable woman, to have sung another’s song, while we ignore something disgraceful: as too much for skillets, or tender pork ribs, as casual salads: those few items, this lovely re-death, or so gone for a particular lie: this wonderful woman, this winning machine, to have lost such promise: this curse, Jesus, this pain, Jesus, while afforded three deaths, Jesus: that resistant smile, that conscious smile, that conscientious smile: to pull with patience, to need admiration, while a man dies to satiate Calypso: our reaper screams, our dazzling cries, while Love adored a manic for souls….     …such soft temple, so surprised it’s you, such remote fantasies: to happen upon flesh, to fire my mind, too steep in public affairs: to laugh at church, to redeem Lucifer, to curse upon a dream his sister—this rosy machine, this maniac thinker, this rebuilt and tragic languishing: those languor voices, this hotel dynasty, our testy frustration—to arise in tonic, to sin pure gin, to arouse a rose: at death feeling good, at womb to neck screaming at insanity: this heavy ground, this mailed frequency, this interior telegraph: at dry skin, rubbing our screams, our Jennies popping and willing to die our casualties: at deaths losing, but winning our sins, to gather a fist full of figs: those terrible truffles, those redeemable eyes, at browns and mahoganies and hazel passions: our bodies grumbling, our resurrection at pretend, our curse as beautiful music: this paper thin gut, this paper thin lie, while it felt terrific to lie: at tulips debating, at daisies a million dollar grin—and not important…!