So emaciated
so young so many bones even hips and failing marrow.
It was
death in me it was rain and mud or boulders, dust, and dusky skies.
Such
saffron mucus those dewdrops or pits with scorpions and backfill. This human in
me, so nearly stolen, while I drag a dead horse.
It was
beauty and bars it was good and murky it threw away intelligence; it was sexy
and strong it was distant and content it was cocky and bold. It analyzed and
spoke while coddling an aye-aye it kept close to something it felt; but what
becomes rightly and what becomes inheritance and is every woman similar? What is our commonality? Are personalities static?
I sense
a mist.
It becomes
disturbance where a man knows darkness while infused by suffusion. Those
sidewalks those pebbles of sand or estuary sediments. To arouse in mist to fret
fire while so displeased. Repainting our eyes or adjusting binoculars while
mocked inside by every word. To try so desperately over poetic foreplay or to
surrender where this often means protection; at impassivity or mental hyenas
seated so intimately with confusion; more syrup for peace or more indifference
for friction or aggressive insecurities that attack.
One cannot
be independent. It will be chastised.
I wrote
an abstract. Our lives in ten sentences. Our everything whispered in
eulogy.
It was ripe for nectar
so disbelieved while she was hunting: the trees had prints the twigs crackled
the hibiscus gave signals; while a man may glance it takes courage if to embark
upon something painful; our eyes filled with apologies our hands kneeling our
guts knowing such wrongness—but fever be good this tug we need while most lose
each battle: silver astronomy or silver snakes while reaching women side
with Wicca; not as witches but more by origin or more by root.
It is
keen funnels or daisy whisks or determined arguments.
It is a beer a
cigar and presence. Our elegy
souls our bright fears while we wrestle mortality.
I must confess, I have
loved like one untrained, where most are reserved. I have courted
seashells
or hoaxed magic or scribbled fantasies over our ocean skies; this cinema or
stage this theater near Broadway or those orchid cries.
It
is never by mortality while it becomes immortal where it lives in penmanship;
such centuries to ink-clues, or women distinguished while a man needs complete
devotion.
