hearts are
swooshing, an eagle’s eye, salty tears over a sensuous song. waters made of
islands, beauty made of easiness, so fluffy for the beloved—to feel deranged,
so uncomfortable, brought back by a tender touch; as being human, so confused,
so delightful—ups-for-downs, downs-for-ups, giving into the winds. such a child
those days, as it triumphs, to give maturity to one unsteady—the function of
intentions, the miswritten Word, the permanent memory; going in hurting, the
world in pain, the future made uncertain; as precarious citizens, pages to
gusts, homes filled with cushion. soft accent, softer charm, so deliberate, it
kills me. rosarium eyes, ballerina toes, leaping into more of energy’s hope. so
awful, so detached, here we are so young, trying to outwit poetry, trying to
fret Mesopotamia, asking forever one gift. it’s early, Passion, to feel,
Passion, a soft giggle, a gentle session at love making. we could be rough,
needing delicate palms, so glued, so abused, hurting too damn clearly—to go
easy on us, to run with feathers blowing in windmills. the fame of God is the
pain of God is the glory of the powers—so afforded a delusion, such a dear
illusion, to hope she has been gracious—in sun in moon in stars. to see myself,
as an addled soul, asking precious weather, surprised she laughs so loudly.
