somewhat
under-aggregated like too many disparate parts, seated like limestone. many
crystals many celebrations, I have it to give; its rain on huts, its broken
thatch, its muddy sandstorm.
climbing
sociality, reducing words, most are critical. roses are perusing, feeling
vibrations, I still collect hertz. at intervals in self, soft flutes, I feel
like a monk. so much brushwork, so much rendered, we ask why is art so
intimate?
I, we, become
spirit galleries—partial to reflection, change upsets us.
a person can be
intolerable, so medieval, with wings in us.
I’m thinking of
symbols—devoid of promises, disputing a way to enthrall us—much participation,
many odic sagas, so much beyond what most contain—the fire of the zinnia, by
rage of the distressed widow, by willows leaning into souls—an ideographic mind,
a pictographic memory, much rain much terror as we might interweave ethics.
the world is
howling. we have entered a masquerade. I will never unmask.
gather with me,
let’s pick berries, let’s make wine.
on a table sat a
pack of cigars, aside was a paper silhouette, closer was a lighter. she burned
with fury. gates were guarded. she despised one, needed to hurt one, would give
to fire.
you have existence
inside—the envy of the valley—we clash often.
somewhat unanointed,
nevertheless, a halo, it baffles the beauty you carry. much a mean element.
seen too much pain. skeptic concerning the stories we share. palming fog,
storing clouds, the storehouse is jammed tightly.
what have us of
order? —it doesn’t behave.
something
niggling, causing uneasiness, it’s love we never share—small clumps of grass,
skies undeveloped, pure passion losing breath.
