daisy coffin, a
snag for me, melodious fragrance. I glance at a sheet, I feel zeal, a second,
it passes. I rethink a begonia, orange eyes, much exaggeration. unthreaded a
twine broken into a seam, her anger is ebbing. a pyre of firewood, an inside
ambulance, an overborne apology. the Dahlia sits. she reads softly, slowly,
carefully. she wipes a tear, colors a damp swamp, giggles a little. she unplugs
a violin, reknits a suggestion, shakes her head at a thought. pure paradise to
contemplative souls; an untold fable; many tales upon our tables. we disputed
over a word, it was “nautic,” it was a terrible/vehement unveiling. (more to
fog in dense clouds around corners up hills into valleys. a few pauses, as
debating structure, meditating upon a zinnia.) inside green water dwells a
turtle, swimming further, seeming agitated. another distraction, as Dahlia flits,
as paradise flies—those concrete emotions, inner regulation, hanging by a rose—eyes
in nemesias afloat in space, touched by concentration.
I might fib into a
prayer with no understanding of being wrong. maybe a twinge, maybe a fire,
maybe we refute by argumentation. many orators, struggling in vain, fraught by
vanity/pride, watching paradise fighting consumption, thus, ignoring Dahlia.
I might unpack
weeping aside a willow tree underneath a shed.
running isn’t
feasible. asking is blasphemy. shooting voltage might feel intrusive.
our tender hearts,
receiving absence, unsure of full rejection. maybe as best parts, I take to a
pen, I braid mind-jute. too much to confess, as needing a feeling, unable to
pledge by separation of coffins.
