he must be superhuman,
like a super-force, taking so many spikes.
she must be
superwoman, a super-figure, buried in galaxies.
certain into a
human’s condition, bright purple dreams, blue blades of grass. surrendering malice,
planting seeds, trying to become a good friend. mosquito dungeons, wings
flapping, stunning sincere innocence. drifting into creativity, opening lights,
counting kilowatts.
surely grounded,
carrying hurts, abashed for adolescent screams; pure in a well, freefalling
above an ocean, rescued by a ship.
she must be
superwoman, a super-figure, buried in galaxies.
he suspended his skies,
ate his suffering, begged his interior—those pears for solemnity, certain
sublimity, warring to be a good friend.
he must be
superhuman, like a super-force, taking so many spikes.
a whale is
chasing, a shark is following, an elephant sits at the table; so pink, such a
life, more potent as a last meal.
people die to feel
good, so charged by glory—scheduled to run low on charm: life’s narrator, pain’s
allegory, or shame’s fable; much remorse, unhinging gates, letting in a flood.
papier-mâché closer
to spending time, associated in literature, to ponder, he did it with
excellence, unbent bars, restructured pillars of thought.
she held a garter
snake, caressed it, let it go to its fate. a falcon watched, came near, the
garter snake was oblivious.
she went inside,
pulled out an iguana, more of a chameleon.
