such
poesy in Adele—the island turning inward—the sky’s veins flooding like thunder;
room to feel sad, to make it joy, alarmed many are in agreement; tragic glory,
travesty beauty, theater inside on days; harlequins crying, the sphinx
repenting, those pains eating earth. the voice of its diamond, a child by an
adult world, so grown feeling lost; the rain of the lightning, the rain of the
brimstone, such eyes permeating intentionality; much crying hope, drowning,
flapping, trying to swim—with Love watching, content to die, with one meaning
terrible news. the fire of the stage, those bolder waters, the castle is
aflame—walking through wires, running for doors, walls crashing—the force of
the resilient, the passion of the lone poet, the message to its agenda. ruminating,
a few scars, battling to make music. the valley is clear, the trees are plush
with leaves, forever is so near—the spirit chancing, the voice dancing, in
spite of factors, in spite of what can’t be seen, in spite of a crumbling
castle. sweeter thunder, into a vessel filled with gases, running, devastation
chasing—the tender grass, those packs rushing, wolves playing piano; by courage
to approach, to start to sing, mellifluous nightmare, cagey address. sure
content with soul, vocalized in stadiums, time to replace the pain of one’s
self.
