maybe
some religion jeans or a necklace or unmeasurable tennis shoes; maybe seasonal
jackets stuffed in closets or arguments with siblings; or unchaotic
disturbances where the Swan is made by justification; indeed, such mental
museums such fame in souls or radicalized spirit-care. I might imagine a
touchstone pen, invasion by doctrine, or needing something clearer: an ax to
paper, emails from the beloved, or days a bit concerned; a ballad for sorrow, a
sestina for love, or a postmodern-day sonnet. if but to sing as ballet speaks
angelica or softer souls made by helium; your present fosse, our present
condition, while doctors and nurses are spent by wilderness; such needs, for
something unfoggy or hundreds spent on sanitizer: our careful address, our
White House confusion, while many are overdue for a leader: someone charismatic,
as opposed to merely rich, or someone from trenches or struggle and triumph.
our purloined feelings, our emotional material, our proletariat passions—to surf
frequencies to need certain qualifications while reality was stuffed in tuber-ware
and placed in the back of the refrigerator. but
those eyes I do imagine have a compass; if not those lights, then unnumbered
phones, or intuitive dialers; for no one should suffer, where eternal hatred
kills violently, desiring fruitful counsel; indeed, something homespun,
something self-interested, or something so close this is all one knows.
