I
adore you, this complex reason, our
white winter, our golden autumn: so stressed and paranoid, such sun-kiss vibes,
such burgundy flesh: at kinship genetics, so close those arms, so rich our
attics: those skycraft agonies, sudden a sadness blue, while Love broke
television: our raided brains, at terrible freedoms, so basic, so adjacent, or
too mahogany: our peering cries, our pierced dilemmas, so unthreaded, so
reknit, if but this summer ghost: to die in us,
to ignore scars, so young, too maladjusted, weaned towards civilized: so
laid away, those rental poses, while minds play guitars: this last pint, this
pomegranate gin, this vest knitting its exaggeration: so wild, so alone, so
crowded: our gloves bleeding, our skies screaming, such thunder-brain-satori: at mindfulness, so concentrated,
as approaching purity but unholiness: our moist skin, our empty ointments, so
raw, so alive, and God heard: those penalties, those rewards, so on at times,
so deceased when angry: our shared steaks, our figurative speech, so atlas, so
undecided: this glass empty, this bottle full, at something requiring deep
courage: (this man as lying, or concerning his models, while thrust for
damaged: those remarkable metaphors, this evening’s muse, or so lost it was by
luck to reach Mars: our rebuked arcs, our cherry grapes, or listening for
feeling quite detached: absorbed in awareness, at a subtle thump, while adrift
time and again: those majesty minxes, those well-touched chalkboards, at
melanin and gristle: if but to rescue Jesus, if but to possess such patience,
our palms, our nails, our likenesses: so accursed, Love, vying for remission,
if but to agonize over something playful: so gutted, so opalescent, at
trenchant reservoirs: our filthy bodies, our bathed indexes, so cursed, so
abandoned, so relocated)!
I
adore you, Love, this machine participant, this warm, fiery chart: so diamond
at seconds, so enthralled at minutes, or recharged a day after losing touch:
this deep regime, those war crosses, at desert fences afire one first tyranny:
our ways so chapel, our caps turned, churned, and sacrificed: our haven annals,
our second date, while encyclopedias speak about dying romances—this field so
lake-like, this muddy such snow texture, our alibis so skeptical: at bass and
treble, so terribly enlove, while fretting another person’s energies: our
cabbage with yams, our hearts with music, at something too terrific to
challenge: (at treasured womb-work, or terrible contemplation, at times, so
pulled adrift pondering another’s texture: those grips, those bicycles, this
flaming insanity: to see Love spin, to bounce an emotion, or so dearly submissive:
to need a vixen, to want for matrimony, to aguish a light nightmare: so
independent, so death with rules, so sickly receptive: this feud in men, those
days to realization, while captive to sense how we lose).
