the
sentence dies its language is grief or sour excellence. I feel her as pumping
exposure if but to see most anguish. her religious filter, her secular
ambition, upon structured paper. I bathe her I steal her I barrow her. her
cousin, such vital ink, the two are desperate. never a pencil or always an
eraser such death in each wind. I ache in her I feel her promiscuity as she
travels looking for unwashed souls. such grace such humanness so afar while
seeming so nearby. she sounds a trumpet, or causes agony, such self-redeeming
anguish.
I seem
put together, maybe a bit the sentence knows my name. her dear ruthlessness,
her delicate transformation, her deep-rooted indifference. I sip her. a pinching
in me. a river just waiting for a crossing. salmon in season, bears avarice, wolves
watching – praising elaborate honesty.
she
sings or nudges silence. the world is full incompleteness. her sadness becomes
leverage. her art is internal. by pain to bleed, by hex to vanish. so tender so
rough so under midnight sun. a building in its land a farmhouse astray a pile of
living in its secret. a pair illegally. a duet in rage. while we get lost in
scenes. it couldn’t matter, it couldn’t be real, the way a sentence whispers at
emotion.
so
raw in excellence. so restrained while outspoken. as speaking with vague
clearness. so hidden in us such seas in diamonds such a benthic creature.
so
painful those ways as eyes moisten such molten lava. nothing adores me, nothing
loves me, as a sentence in its purity. so much it kills so great it dies while
pushing so hard to disbelieve – its rank its majestic cure its deep, demanding courage.
