So
much about love. A city in a cathedral. Or multiple islands. / Accused but
indelicate. Rerouted but running backwards. That impressionable face. / Our
gates whispering. Those wires laughing. These fire mirrors. / These racing
skies. As so lovely it hurts. Such wretched beauty. / This sensory operation.
Where objects are objective. Where subjectivity has ruined dreams. / If but
appropriate. If but understanding. If but unadulterated happiness. / To love
like fugitives. To gun across countries. So excluded such romance. / Our
thoughts, Silent One. Our measures, Violet One. While all women are daughters.
—Those tragic feelings. Splayed by darkness. Where we kiss and neatly raindrop.
Our aesthetic needs. To have plurality. But secure in singularities. So
gorgeous one picture. So at pains to re-confess—for something knew we would die.
This forecaster. Those violent sneezes. So sober so flustered so displaced. —I
knew capacity. I knew it was good. I mingled intellectual properties. But
pavement was sturdy; and pavement was stubborn; and pavement was at love those
walls. This freedom anxiety. Those anxious freedoms. So pulled by perfect
pictures. Such sensations. Such desire. While a stranger makes a good day. ///
Those radical mirrors. These granny clocks. Our days eating peanuts. So sweet
to me. So kind to us. Such silent omens. Determined in mud. Amplified through
terrors. Afraid that mirrors do harm. Such blue fire—pushing into skyglass,
while in-home furniture was snowing. /// Those ghetto lawns. So different to
taste. At penchants to scream. This irritable chitzsu. Those wiggly Retrievers.
Or this dying Labrador. At pens with mercy. Attempting this Goliath challenge.
Where this mirror follows. Our bones, Love. Our fragile bodies, Pain. Or such
melodious disagreement. As needing mirrors. As forgetting reflection. As
sailing too far to return. These brain cores. These mind floors. Or this simple
complication.
Immediately
retracing. Walking into mirrors. Mother is there. / She likes us. She looks
like haven. But something Sybil attracts our language. / So tender those
patience. “Tie your shoe.” I reappear. /// This concrete fungal. Our forms and
codes and orderings. To shift with music, to fall for promise, too rearranged
to act normal. /// Those proper reasons. Our proper inhalations. Our fathers
too busy. At serious nomenclatures. If but to rename traumatic dice. If but
this noisy tribunal. Our defenses. Our slippery slopes. But Love is remade. ///
This trenchant beauty. To see such youth. If but to re-awaken. / Our dearest
daughters. So scarred by rules. Or singing reflexiveness. As remarkable nests.
Or executive wilderness. While this mirror is too intrusive.
Love
is formless. Ever into our garden. Looking at father’s luggage. This crazed
insistence. This residue our tables. This son trying too wiggly. Our unsung
daughters. Where a few are listening. Where one might rewrite our screams.
Quoted in essays. Or read aloud. Or Judges musing before trial. Our angry
mirrors. Our distant mirrors. But I see a smudge. Those days laughing. These
ruined child lights. Those radiant trajectories. Too involved for objectivity.
Too subjective to win. While a stranger was offended. This loud mirror. This
unspoken mirror. While mirrors are internal. Our hearkening. Our distressed
goodness. So involved in pleasing others.
I
adore turquoise skies. This terror for good people. While a vandal is unaware.
As never a day, to notice skies, upon a bed resting softly. Something so
private—so intimate—and we think they know! As young wolves. Displeased with
mirrors. Or attempting to re-gnaw souls. At incredible people, negotiating our
screams, while ignoring vulnerability.
