I need to dote
over glamour as perceived by intelligence. while she chances, pure gasoline,
flaming as tides make ocean fire. removed from me, eyes in me, flying where
crying in me. too delicate strong. too filthy clean. a soul too clever, a mind
so astute. chairs are at attention, tables hold weight, computers store
information. those bodily delights. those trenchant hassles. sour moral
complexion.
I need to dote
over one woman, to inherit her personality, in boxes or cedarchests—those old
letters, much dusty paper, made easy but harsh on my soul. I need to believe in
sobriety these pillars we sprout, those legs running to me our sadness as
connectivity. I must smell roses soft scented begonias or carefully place a
hive in my spirit. I must awaken by smiles as we die gently bogged down by our
captivity.
picturesque
scenery, large survival eyes, ceramic pink lips. a tongue so pure a slight
cherry taste so pushed into my mouth—probing, spinning, encouraged to swim or
live or capture a picture. minds made menacing. souls sullen with a spark.
radiant anchor anxiety. raw realness. so hung by her so thrown into a furnace
just flickering power. our doting is shallow. I need to go further. something stifles
celebration.
I never trusted a
woman. I never knew it was suffering. I come from a terrible orientation.
I never felt comfortable—with
self or others or God. I never knew beauty until one showed me excellence. I never
touched reliability or stood mindless at a cross or waxed wise while
appreciated. it was new, knitted in knots, kicking like wildness.
her or her or her
or her or her … never like fireworks or firebrand or fireflies …
