a shattered chain,
a mirror of ash, over a glass of Moet. I tried to laugh. I tried acceptance. it
amazes what we experience.
many cups near the
rug, stains in ink, rites terrorizing citizens.
I didn’t call it
love, porcelain pains, pleasures to observe pressures. part baptism, part thug,
looking at the best in others.
chairs made
plural, our fascination, buttocks ruling, breasts ruling—depends on each
culture.
back to plans, to
chance those emeralds, to die in an art, to call an indictment on indifference.
it aches so much,
most have given up, the thrill becomes, feeling nothing but lust.
back to plans, I keep
deviating, I need to tell us something.
I knead souls, as
inside, I do a morning ritual. we’ve communicated, not as voice boxes, more as
cadence, rhythmic, more hearts by a drumkit.
I must remove
pieces. I keep beauty. it hurts to feel closeness.
"What?"
closeness is
responsibility. closeness is forgiveness. closeness means, I love you.
an hourglass body,
or petite pearls, must we purchase curtains?
sinks are unclean.
tubs have residue. hair is a reason to ask questions.
a vase in a den
next to a 13th century bottle of Scotch. a lady looks at pictures.
she knows rumors. she never repeats them. her name is Judith. her inheritance
is biblic. her nightmare becomes her mannerisms.
I had a discussion
with the lady. her characteristics were unveiling another person. we slept with
a tear in a mug.
check the
mind-line, check the rags the garments, check the antique diary.
