it
lives in me a grand faux pas even the lose of a daughter. people speculate or
surmise at corners fretting sirens; such goosebumps or social/emotional
inventory while I can’t but I fantasize. the interior portrait those friendly
feelings where most are insistent. it took years. it took pain. but we got it
together. our new eyes our warm patience or our tiger rage. to adore like dying
or to discard potential or a point must appear—those candy charms those sweet
yams or something so opposite it becomes attraction. it would happen while
deeply revolting if but to need such tenderness: something wretched into
something beautiful while we wonder those islands those screams those demons.
such kaleidoscopes or telescopes or micro-managed affections; such dreamscapes
or ruined psychologies to die at a wavering foot. our minds knitted our concentration
at an impasse we maneuver but traffic is jammed. we sit or watch or giggle or
fume. what a person wouldn’t give if but to rescue a perception while it’s
fleeting pash. I was looking at Love, I admired her texture, when I remembered her
masks the iron the spears or pathways those scars or agonies—to resurrect a
coffin to exhume sentimentalities or such oddity—to communicate. it sounds
simplistic those verbal gymnastics but it opens one to scathing possibilities.
