I
surveyed essence, replaced an engine, as touched a conveyor belt: a can of
tuna, a jar of cranberries, a bottle of juice. I would relax or knit theology
or avail as a human error. to panic more so much sky in me such a broken
twig—those seem fantasy or too cursed to see straightness while born so compelled.
I wish to fly or higher a cord as tiptoeing irrationality—those railing rants
those crucial cages by ample adrenaline. it would understand. it would see
human. it has escaped by firing essence: but it cuddles itself, it laughs at
itself, it has a hankering for curtains—such origami if but a machete where it
wakes absent to garden strata. (I see more I hear perfection I sympathize with
its inclination. but dragging spirits, or pulling ceilings or such an uneven tail—to
give innocence or become so unkempt where a man is compelled to be gentle—as it
becomes so revved so dark where a man’s pain is underappreciated.) we become
erased or dismissed where intention sees strength: by vacant affectation, where
book-smart holy, as a lady might hanky a waterfall—preferably one raindrop.
(I’ve undressed such as fantasy or a carload of cargo moving too
slowly—dragging a cigarette so faraway as an unverified error.) by raw
alternatives where a man is optimism as to dispute a woman, leak privacies, if
but to shift a feeling wavering with its hearts. yes, more
than expected or
more to detaching elements where one is too stealth to un-realize: as backfield
distance where this is what we know, by which this is what we commit to: those
pellet pupils those cello caves while one is happy so deeply disgusted: by a
Corvette Soul or a tub baptism where one interacts while we never meet again.
an era ending while America is taking punches, or dear blue seas, we become so
apparent.
