Swan Inkpad/Such a Tragic Miracle

I get sad in memory. This illusive field. Our burgundy concrete. / I get something beige. This treasure of symptoms. Where love is apparent. / To destroy negligence. Or life gentle a thistle. Attempting this realist night-bear. / Such riveting claws. Looking at pure pain. Agreed to ignore strangers. / But those glimmers. This spirit-hope. Or souls too realized to die.

I loved an ideal. I felt mother, but I felt aloof. / I died sin. I grinned lying. It was never so deep. / As climbing hoofs. Or petting injuries. Our genealogies unfastened. / Our genetic characteristics. A man watching ghosts. Or a daughter nudged to search house. / Our goatskin Blues. Our uncombed philosophies. Or so close it hurts to see. / Our interior workshops. Our intervening clarities. Too far to evolve. / These few words. This cord—that button—it fell early. / At something terrific. But made difficult. Reliving our ancestors. / That cold moon. Or this Venus child. While Neptune is quite out there. / Those spatial flowers. This faraway petal. At argent magenta. / So into absence. Longing like penguins. Afraid to lose thrice. / Those topaz fires. This trope for eyes. Our last cries. / Hardwood pressures. Phonogram torque. Our pictograph embers. / At spirit-ideograms. Laughing or carrying strongly. Our weights so adult. / This cage with keys. Those difficult keys. At places looking aloof. / (So at flight. This interior flight. This flight so interior. / Those abstract conditions. So enslaved. To undo our clutches. / Re-mesmerized. Rereading Polycarp. As it was it is). / Too gray. As foggy clouds. Our nebulous ethics. / While it feels rain. It engenders shame. At exile waiting for Cyrus.

Hey Heart. I met a person. Those few people. To put eyes to touch. / Canaanite genetics. Hittite ancestors. Or something a green planet. / I disappear—stalking truths—embedded in something unlocked. / A casual smile. Intrigued by Jerrika. And claiming my life. / Looking at invisibility. Sensing a great voice. A bit reused. / Macedonia eyes. A Phoenician sin. Or language royalty. / Our infatuation. Reknitting Athens. Or visiting Europe. / Those terrific minds. This terrific land. A bit unspoken. / Mental zookeepers. Creative Africa. So restricted, Love. / Rebels with causes. Or rebels lost. Or rebels found. / This coregent war—this quadroon kernel—while father ate blight.

Such fuchsia inlets. Roaming otiose regrets. While time is watching. / Those glasses adored. Those winters warm. Our cozy small palms. / Groundless features. Colored in gravity. While emotion is so abstract. / Unbridled interference. Our ears carrying anchors. As never a pure individual. / This hated person. This diaspora sentence; such diseased friendships. / Outwitted seconds. Pantomime existence. While others are carefree. / Our local faculties. Our invisible reasons. So uncooked. Such rawness. Such a solid untruth.

Hey Swan. I met a young river. I heard a strong current. I nurtured Abimelech. / I felt Hivite eyes. This youth so precious. This interior Theresa. / I heard Gertrude. I couldn’t tell. But mother was adverse. / We see now. We feel oceans. We gray a tide as royal.

Concentrate, Love. Stare at a pencil. What has it become? / Those ghostly copies. Those seasick pillows. Or that spacial sibling. / That ancient name. This queen for recognition. This incarnate miracle. / If but those eyes—to see calamity—while so firm an opinion. / Our terrible helmets. Our wonderous breastplates. Our undemanding swords.