I
don’t reason love or multiply mistakes if but to fashion our lungs, so spatial
or dreaded to have passion while bleeding those gifts those fires those forces,
as creatures disturbed such raw science where we break sanity, that lever that
liquor that ghost so close to winning or so found as remorse where winning was
delusional. I paper-machete or pantomime or too sensitive to ignore flamboyancy—our
running souls while grieving deeply as never a measure high enough to re-kettle:
metal disagreements, indifferent majesties, while angels become indecent:
gawking at flesh, so devastated by skin at letters to plead but destressed by
forgiveness. thousand-dollar plates diamond dealt dice, after tiles and fluids
while screaming about love. the Labrador at grass, while quick to vomit, where
a sleigh pleases a community. we un-rumor our tales we revive our securities if
but to reboot those partial rules—so delicate so ensured while such black
Spanish rawness; so Israel by beauty, so Jerusalem by pain, while Frank married
a Palestinian. our souls after Egyptians or Asian dolls wherefore nothing seems
to combat; our aching swords so steep in forests while nothing meant more than
flesh: such daughter clocks such father mockingbirds while something should be happiness:
our nightmare, our unbalanced knitting, if but universal doctrine.
