I
tell it on the mountains such complex habits where a man forces his allegiance.
I
found in you but attraction those rosary relations so real to something
unsteady.
to
plead forgiveness in a
world needing shame if but to reflect upon all those wolves. (it was anxiety to
cross paths it was disaster to break free as it was love to ignore spirit.)
those
extinct alleys those moving snails as accursed waiting on release; those
millpond thoughts those ducks and geese just watching if but for food; to crawl
that way to put life to skies so dedicated so determined or sweet fragments.
Something would die with us this
innocent young boy while adulthood is cutthroat.
When
I first saw you such deep distraction where reality speaks softly; such
whetstone wishes such wrangling inside if but that life if but those dreams.
I
sit facing mirrors looking disturbed or looking confused.
I
rebuild at intervals so situated to come across a coyote’s gaze; upon a candle
at interior screams while I invest too much in imagination—this terrible
tricycle those alarming training-wheels while a man is so grown and so
uncertain; this design as meant, if but to befuddle, where one is then pliable.
It
was sweet terrific into a spiral where nothing made sense; but Love was abrupt,
and Love would mock, or but a fool such passion!
but
a kettle whistling but tragic beauty into dungeons to find music; this swarm of
orphans this city of thieves while elders are preparing for eternity.
If but to seize our cries
if but worthy of those vines as one musing upon a kite; such grains of sand, a
palm of sea, surrounded by kelp and mud; so buried in mind, or stationed before
mercy, while most are too infatuated.
I
have effaced action but mind-grip still yearns where reason points towards its
exit; to persist in night-scares or to feel restrictions while one is pure
concentration; as to exhaust a reservoir, to the anger of others, where we have
nothing linking our allegiance; those perfumed hallways or this removed door
while walking into strange forests; midnight day-fire, or terrible intuition,
where a man ignores his brains just to rest: those comforting delusions, or
pure deliberateness, at something carrying deposits:
if
but this dimension if but perfect unison but we find that most everything is
similar.
