I’m
not attracted, not immediately, while attracted, nonetheless: this feudal
banister, such crimson blood, such purple dynasties: as Love looks, as Love
gazes, something rare this picture: our banished inclinations, while requiring
immediacy, so fragrant, so distant, so acapella: I googled poems; I found such
patience; I saw such history: as used a word, unbeknownst to skies, to see such
sitting stillness: this pouch of writings, this blue fire, this ancient
feeling: accursed with Love, a child with Love, a glorious death in Love: to
wander senses, to hear bragging, while one gloats over another’s deaths: but
painted in fresco, or graffiti those trains, to see, sense, and settle: over
yore, this amazing promise, this amazing instrument: our futures mingling,
those bodies clashing, while we’ve met over academia: sidereal rages, at
page three, this anthology: while missing ingredients, while purchased to
escape, those years running forever.
I’m
not enlove, while laughter is watching, or, too, angry with mirrors: reducing
comments, sensed as awkward, as fevered in a stranger: to bless this heart, to
feel incredible, while sad those lutes: overtaken but saluted, gangly but
clear, restructured while unclear: those funeral ponds, those distinguished
pains, as aloof by measurements: too
tensed to whisper, too stagnant to applause, where passion seems to grip
invisibility: our wildest sin, our meter-prints, or those voice-paws: as alone
with everybody, or everybody feeling closeness, to perish a yearning introvert:
our message flame, our cages giggling, while a man wrestles with gravel: at
negligees panting, or sentences a thump, while truly wishing for that audience:
as alive with mire, so muddy our debut, while cleansed, rinsed, or studied.
Such
strawberry aches, or raspberry cherries, while a man adores his visions: but
gemstones, or cobblestones, or rich, indebted theologies: a deductive argument,
by no greater idea, where realization points to word-magic: those reluctant
eyes, those splendor eyes, while such a confession breaks gravity: even with
proclamation, held hostage by certain attraction, so reified, so terrified, so
at something seeming normal: highlights racing, desert patience waning, where
seeing visions becomes a reason to compose: so unsettled, so unfurled, while
mornings seem distressed: living a thin thread, as it robs creativity, while
sipping this grim reaper: so much juice, such dedicated dishonesty, where a
fantast agonizes over a phantom.
I’m
not attracted; I swear this scream; as a man throws his dice: opus pains, opus
grins, or opus deception: accused and devastated, rebuked and claimed, or
instructed and forgotten: so much fire, so much water, our minds becoming
lukewarm: while children watch, or children play, seeming a bit oblivious:
mother knits, mother crochets, while mother tends to delicate temperaments:
father builds, father patronizes, while father abandons a fleeting thought.
It
seems incredible, our souls at mischief, while so content with silence: as two
agree, but never a discussion, while something traditional has upchucked its
ghost: our more created souls, languishing softly, re-spoken by tunnels: to
evince a suggestion, to ask in earnest, or intolerant and escaping: pushing our
motives, so close to irregular, at trestle and pen—those finer exploits, this
losing frenzy, to win something remarkable: so intangible, so captive, while
unwrapped for freedom: those short roads, this long forgiveness, or this deep
expectation: as time is selected, or time is unsatisfying, while unfamiliarity
promises eternity: our wild feelings, if but this creator, if but this miracle.
