the
tales are painful. a soul dying to release. by the curse of condition. a
man holds his head, his wife rubs his neck, much more dying is unfulfilled. he
looks up, tears raging forward, going lower. she catches him, they lie on
carpet, the floor is mourning. he apologizes repeatedly. “I should be stronger.
I just need a release.”
days
are a catalyst to those fire gates, nibbling heart-bread, braiding excellence.
the anxiety is inside you, the fury is emanating from you, over pears of
despair. it might be beauty for you. it might feel terrific. have you a clock
made of depth?
the
third-dimension trickles. I see a pictureless woman, I cannot answer the
calling. I enter a coppice, I howl with wolves, coyotes are absent. the bears
are coming, they smell flesh, roaring with vengeance. so astute in you, so
acute in me, breathing becomes obvious—to dear Anguish, to Deepness as it rains,
the current drifting through me.
only
now do I find you, by a star, an inexperienced fever.
only
now do I understand the requirements of love.
minds
at random, ensuring conscious life, puzzled by an aqua sunbeam.
