I felt
rivets this soul so absolute such reality to senses; to locate a dream our irreligious
vows or our atheists’ spirituality; so evolved in you a woman I’ll never touch
but a feeling so dear to lights;
this
moonlit horizon those sealed charms as galaxies tend to feel heavy; our
tiptoeing sciences our garden agriculture so blessed to have died with you;
this creative soul such intimate cadence while too frantic to ride infinity;
our returns in winter our arrhythmic catapults so darling in this pool of
deeper sanities; to have loved a mirage to have sunk into delusion where
illusion carries a few facts;
but
Love was meditating and Love was thoughts where edginess was always available.
I pined in mania I
dined with ghosts I returned but a bit imbalanced. It took years for God’s
rescue, this planet demanding participation, for faith without works might not
suffice.
This
miracle in you it blossoms in violet it moves like centipedes; those guerrilla
tactics those gorilla eyes to realize something fantastic; our spiritual ambrosia
as lives so indebted while a soul studied Sirach—those inkprints those radical
agitations so spirit-bound so Zen with fever; as of recent months this tethering
feeling while I know it would hurt justice;
as writers and
philosophers, or essayists and theologians, or memoirists and scientists; these
celebrated titles those celebrated novelists plus this world of therapeutic
poetics; to die so sweetly, to un-cave so violently, where one needs something
to believe in; as coming to that space or cringing to arrive in such a kingdom
filled with outstanding lovers;
so, I pushed
passed the feeling and I re-gravel the emotion while roaming those city
valleys.
I thought
about summonses that old tired relation where one feels that everything was
destined; this insult to hardwork this land those deliberate trees or this Old-World
environment;
our purple genetic
our blue blood this feeling where chemistry is but attraction; to glacier so
lightly—at something filmed as perfect, while it hurts to hear, I’m losing
you.
life becomes
parable and parable becomes existence while I listen and wonder of the home you
provide. As speaking to probability, and suggesting I would, but what man is
able to share his dreamcatcher; one might try as losing his box where arguments
and resentments shall ensue; or a darling child and asking questions where it
shreds life to exaggerate;
our deep soil our tillage’d
farms so inverted and turned inside-out; to glisten amore, to sing as unsung
while valleys are filled by aesthetics; this un-engendered passion this list of
concerns or this hope to never stumble nearer; as poetic-justice, longing where
illusion dies, or something rising into crystalized pain.
