speaking has been its
enclave its miracle its knitted joy; to have access to such a dominion where
reality is spent into solemnness. so much art in you. so much condition in you.
so candescent in portrait. to race to culture to dance in rhythm as so blessed
it might hurt. ruminating nuts & bolts, needing a touch of catapulting, or
soft southern shields. to imagine much unsaid, while some are indifferent,
while given such lenience. to wonder of redemption, a man to his wars, a
dungeon to his spirit. such rare kenisic(s), such need for telepathy, or such
worry into its cave. as located creatures, carved from chaos, or raw railing
resistance—to have wonder while wondering of one’s dearest arc; a brook in its
meadow a harpoon in our memories or meshed in polarity while many don’t
actualize. unspoiled but spoiled, as only a love, such nectar in its freedom.
by wife to waves by mother to matters, by friend to feelings. as living forever
or rapid into rainbows, such a delicate, beautiful, mythlike identity. to have
lost a name, so radical a sensation, while aloof to its touch; but
consciousness attaches itself to unconsciousness while some enter its fortress
partway. by life’s pathologies, so sensitive to its salience, as celebrating
pure acceptance. if but to lose a body or to gain a fever so low it aches more.
so much a photo, or a delicate image, while personality lives inside. so powerful
an aura so much a gem as so mental or mazelike. to love essence. to ignore in
part, such realities revving into boiling silence.
