we
end gently, as embodied creatures, as scarves or cloths or masks. such molasses.
such trials or pledges. while we seem in routine. oh black art where windows
aren’t covered, therefore, our neighbors are photographing. by ambrosia sorrows
or miserable laughter if to sense humans are wrestling. our rivers our
indebtedness our creeks or brooks. a signet our fury a nation of supporters
while we often endorse something against us: if but to fit a groove, if but to
feel bolted-in, while deep anger stirs at low frequencies. it was electric but
simmering. it was fire up above. while one is making indictments. we ignore it.
or we explore it. while sharpness is forging rebuttals. so many fangs. such
landmark colors. while spirit is socially misty. but a man broke privacy. a man
pointed out his pain. so, if embarrassed by that, we keep our distance. such a
great time, to have such a curse, where we’re reluctant to respond. or dear debates.
something theoretical. while pragmatists are having a fit. such stature means
so much to a nation idealizing precedence. our minds are citadels. our souls are
houses. we might agree that something is in the attic: boxes of claims, a few
mice, or notes outlining our entire existence. more to lights, our endless
deeds, our angst and creeds. to find a puppeteer. or to locate Descartes. or to
find saints and mystic disappointment.
