winds burrow
through cities, voices are muffled, parades are cancelled.
it would be what
he couldn’t have—to open him to what he was missing.
if different, it’s
education, academia, true rearing—as into a creature, a man would adore, much
his paramour.
souls drift missing strangers, rare
encounters, meaning indeed sketchy; made into images, feral in bones, a soul
bled of his inheritance.
so much wonder,
rosemary roses, a rosarium of instincts, a countryside, many small creatures—to
die into another, for just a breeze, left with intense perception.
a mind in us, like
winning in us, there is no us!
some indicative
trait, some fantastical sensory, tiptoeing embarrassment.
her palms are
different, her tentacles with more passion, alive here hunting for there.
a crazed man is a
passionate man, a whit unstable.
to love at a
glance, like Petrarch in time, such torturous happenstance. no one convinces
otherwise, lust is healthy, eyes needing parachutes.
so into
excellence, damn weaknesses, if but to hear, “It can never be effaced!”
some dreamy poet,
accursed by letters, so addicted to his poison; begging wisdom, fleeing his
soul, addressed as internal: mystic trefoils, cultic clovers, trancing into a
leaf.
to have adored on sight, to have stayed a
distance, to have walked further into one perception. where witnesses unravel,
they know it would be heinous, those two-attacking wilderness.
slower into
despair, waking neater morals, alone is a sanctuary.
