I looked
I caught a glimpse, it distressed me. too much flying as beauty would hurt so
accustomed to grave lights. those prints in sands those clumps near existence
so acute by resistance. at far fires as internal wires so clothlike so much
chaos as captured creatures. to hate by love or to love by hate, it feels quite
sickly. the sickle to roots the ravens watching as if I knitted a scarecrow.
too much to handle if full throttle so threshed for a rare specimen; as aloof
at chimes or showing women at chimes while a man knows if he loves her—so caught
in rain those drops like witnesses those plums like loquats. I fiddle a freesia
I lost a zinnia, now a black jaguar is aching—those roses in buds those mantises
in bloom where a classroom wreaks of indifference. so many victims, just
because, where it feels heavier. some violence some eschewing some dynasty in its
dungeon. but Love was robotic or big eyes or heavy on a plank. a thatch of
straw, a bled forward miracle, such mange in madness; to flip a sparrow to deny
such promise while giggling with chiefs. an indigenous soul so much as gunning
while raped for land, women, and pride. so black these nights so disregarded,
everyone riding what Harris has done; “but Obama too,” indeed, pushing harder
these nights. I rum it up I go sober I write while low, but nobody knew! such a
slave to it so much enlove with it as a man just released from surgery. (I
loved like a fool. I was mantic like a lieutenant. I mashed my brains into a
different sphere.) too many clauses too much gorgeous where Love is a
streetwalker. to fend for ages to deliver a child without a father to claim.
such dice so frantic such a gray button: to live forever as a sick man looking
for new prophecy. at a timekeeper or those fence-keepers, while asleep broad
day (the sun is heating—or against such raining as thunder was privileged). too
close to defend it, too far not to want it, as a man-eating Wednesday sorrows!
so much to hold on while Love is free, the last to fall for an old con!
