I listened
to a piece on grief—the leniency towards space—those gates held in reserve. the
artist streamed in and out of freshets, resumed identity, and presumed we might
understand. so intrusive laying light bear while I have nothing to say. so
banished from glistening and yet so torn into listeners with much to retain in
its charge. I believe Chang read grief, or better Victoria, we marvel if the
two are split. but grief hung it seemed threatening where we worry to read
those words; as if dying is viable or living is lazy such purgatorial lines. by
breath to fret cages a word or two keeps returning. I realized dissonance in
every word, I’ve uttered in every cherry I partake, in every reality I aim to own.
such existential grief, such Platonian grief or long walks up grief’s alley.
the blanket is sadness those dishes are responsibility those clouds are grief—so
filled with misery such colors in misery such public restrooms or darts to
targets or arrows claimed or discussed. melody is grief chairs are grief the
tender kiss of a soul is grief. I listen to poker I understood the ante while
plasticity would chance its passivity. how much can be said, in terrors named
by horrors where the cafeteria is filled with unsanctioned grief. so much a
lemon where it never evaporates such classification to resist; by agony in its
season or recurrent as I awaken while another articulates the mathematics of
grief. our skies bottled in seas so empty the above scene looks invisible; the
blue has ran it has enveloped blackness we see through exospheres. we indict
grief. we admire grief. we’re stuck, tangled, even effaced by grief. the weasel
in grief the intimacy in grief that feral feeling flaming in anxiety’s grief.
such smooth reading such a natural lecturer so gifted with grief lurking. by
fire in opposites by clandestine grief by grief so special so faithful it kills
grief.
