we
suffer inhibitions roaming around sudden upon a seashell. they’ve been there.
we didn’t notice. it requires concentration. our topmost condition, our roots
in pinewood so chafe in box-metal. too disinterested or running with
instruments as hoping one voice would heal pestilence. such central conflict or
economic characters while a fable might mention us once. aside an orange-tree,
plucking in delights, such citrus such substance. arranged to enjoy to become
fruitful as to multiply the earth. I kneel gently, I palm a palm, her little
eyes speak of kindness. I walk away, return to existence, we must choose our
focal points. our encrusted essence our bright big stars as creatures longing
for what most call love. by dear sunburn as never more joyous where hearts rejoice—such
dynamic forgetfulness, such a peace would cry, someone is howling.
to reseal time some giving to wisdom
some provocation in souls. how have I needed more—feeling filled with bugs, or
a Savanah desert, reeling in for delousing? by neat beauty by many universes or
a face read if determined. too much to resist too little to become a conduit or
just enough to walk forward; the performance of the novella or its architecture
while searching for its power. similar to watching humans, as knowing there’s
an audience, as dying where feelings are living; by voice of one as to stir
masses while pausing only for the chaplain.
