I’m
indebted to you—such excellent horizons—or torn blue petals.
to
arrive so early
where breakfast was waiting our coils our ribs: water ran debated, future us
was giggling
something eclectic plus something unvocal: those deliberate castles while
bodies are pawns unto life so eternal: by clumps of skies or blades of clouds
such furnace or webs or indifference;
to adore as we
live pondering driftwood or playing near a beehive: those feelings in mists
those elements impure while so confused time is funning.
I have
out-felt us while buried into us where pain becomes contradiction; condensed
teal islands or marginal embrace while women need individuality; as a bit of
distance into a colorful association while fixated on race; to resist our souls
or to alienate our minds while most daughters are disregarded; indeed, so close
by nature or so far by brains where uniqueness seems inappropriate.
wits
are budding while guided softly where one needs univocal analyses. but Love is brilliance
or departures while seated near inflation.
such
confetti-feelings or allegiance to funerals where we sense an inordinate number
of deaths. those hallways whispering this door creaking or floor-tiles loosened;
but a lute to love you but resilience to keep you where a person must ignore apertures.
indeed, so much of us in order to deal with us or so less of us in order to
long for us.
this
iridescent beauty those opalescent sun-cries or such devout talismans; to die
gently while fed life as arranged in something deliberately:
those
days with you while somber or sober in you to fly by serenity in you; this pail
of tears, this black cat, or this alley of old friendships.
the curio the couch the credenza—
these speakers to affront a shoji
screen to renege upon a geisha.
by
tuffet those red
eyes where cherries are sweet insanity; our neighbor’s draperies to have
invented nosiness while they speak seldom enough to know our identity. this silent
excuse where one feels so deeply—that another person must be labelled; but
never our eyes while feuding our hunches to look at mirrors a bit intently.
this lake in
Europe or those meadows in Germany or our California agendas; to have adored our
pains to have forgiven violations if but to hold a dear Swan;
but this sick man,
those sickness feelings, to endure for but one: a mother’s hell, the ghost’s
orchid,
while a man would
die for his child—where a woman might feel disgusted.
those cedar
waxwings those swanic songbirds where a man might surrender while close to
another: such wanton fire, or city goldfinches, while interrogating
intentionality; to have cringed at first glance, to hit the nail squarely,
while so true it became rage!
