she shelters her mind, it echoes
indirection, patience proves its calmness.
he kneels. internality is a wizard.
tempest winds swarm his essence.
if to love like existence, like romance,
is love made a promise? devoid of contempt, howling at adversity, past life,
past time, future internality.
needing an anointing, pleading in prayer,
patient, waiting, heavy with unclarity.
she palms raindrops. she decorates tombs.
her mind is a voyage—through spaces, different identities, cleaving to one made
clear.
aside an ottoman sits a diary. she riffles
through it. she finds a page: “Clawing into skies, gnawing insecurities, cycles
continue to vex motion.”
such fullness, the poverty, its apex, its
arc; many blunders, many renditions, paradox is pensive.
inside of a breastbone, lives a heart,
filled with sunshine, bursting in fever, subdued by application.
upstream is a hut, the old man is wise,
his wife is wiser; it takes structure to tackle life, or life to exist at all.
