it could be justice, an arrow across seas
darting to its target. inward standards, an alluring physique, so troubled over
mathematics. like chiseling skies, invisible ink, amateur agoutis. the better
self, losing graces, or winning integrity. a palm of sawdust, wishing against
hopes, like passing one that never says, “Thank you.” underwater with a
platypus, laughing over beers, cautious, conscious, as not to get bitten. the
world of the Estée Lauder catalogue, the abstract runway, the gut as it pistols
an intense moment. the woman so gorgeous, cuts or bruises, quite aggressive
friendships; to have arrived as winning the loss, or losing the win, a duvet
for comfort. or groceries, something simple, a big dispute over legs or steaks
or gizzards. making film with words, chaff at nouns, overt with verbs. smothered,
smoldering by discomfort, passion so enchanting, bodies responding where minds
are reluctant—so tender this route, it says something distinct, how is it the
body is so receptive? the gala is Gucci women, Maybelline adroit, skilled in fever,
higher than existence. seeing as we saw, appalled by neglect, some are
inconsiderate. but Love has a Prada pouch, a Carter diamond, a slight hankering
for attention; to micromanage relations, to macro-manage center stage, or so
mesosystemic it aches by a signature anguish, deeper into the azure, raining or
sprinkling as if a call from exospheres.
