I
was innocence or insecurities or susceptibilities; so forced those years,
associating with echelon, steady at my curriculum. I flurried in frustration
such raspberry cries where longing seems appropriate; fierce language or
tapestry sentences while fueled but not accepted. I struggled biases or conscientious
objectors more concerned with my life; to see eyes steaming with jealousies, to
imagine one as afforded luxury, with no care concerning investigation. I looked
at him. I asked an important question. And he was so smug he choked on smiles. so
terrified of nonacceptance until it became incomplete as to realize something
is not balanced. those subjective millponds as depicted as objectivity but
realized as too gray. or this maxim
where something inconsequential or indescribable becomes certain bites in
souls.
I have learned to
uninvest in deeper
ambiguity while asking for
social resumes; for times are fleeting, a feeling is tackled, new books arrive
each semester; usually but a few changes or changes enough—the old edition can’t
be returned. such emotion where most of life is nonrefundable where
we thought about heirlooms—those few antiques those few beautiful people so
developed by compass or conscience.
