I can’t uproot
adverbs, nor seduce adjectives, nor un-analyze the myriad reasons it would feel
educational falling. academic is a middle term, it would be like a mother’s
assurance, a father’s firm assertion, or a granny’s unconditional apologetics.
like tailored sentences, most internal, I just need to relax a whit. I know it
hurts, it’s alluring, while I have poesy to give; solace grief, deep miracle
pain, release, deep resurrection, I see this in essence: barking chitzsu(s), an
adorable Labrador, a feeling satiated, high, aloof, or irregular—never fully
pledged, “I would never in a million years adore poetry.” an interior weft, so
close its brushwork, so indebted, we feel guilty, nor would I clasp cuffs on
experience.
fans are blowing,
winnowing winds, water is sprinkling in an empty room; the table/human is seen,
so the table/human is received, otherwise, the table/human has no existence.
much to see in her, it
terrorizes the paths we’ve crossed, I would never hear her—I would only see her
actions.
the palm of habits, the
psalm of graphics, a man calm made tragic.
if to adore like dying
soon, would lights permeate our quarters?
I will live as under
circumstances. I will persist like racing in the Olympics. I will tinkle with
perfection until she opts to die in me.
