some will be given
indemnity, freedoms to fly, flagrant promises, indirect apologies. like banshee
winds, like painting hopes, flitting, scudding, over sunlit passions.
rustic squirrels,
country coyotes, we sit in valleys. like fulgent spirits, soft at sunlight, or
probed, bursting open, souls loading the deeper parts. an inrush, a biblic
inconsistency, a woman’s irony.
more asphalt,
needing abstract reasoning, needing passion on a plate. some creek between us,
one in us, there is no us. by a legend in time, ancestors summonsed to lights,
fire in us.
wilder atmosphere,
gullible beginnings, much in needing to believe—in persons, in science, in
logic; those zenic eyes, omic waves, cursed to believe in activities.
so indebted to
wars, so alive in goodness, a vote for love as it appears; like jewelry in
souls, open eyes filled with tears, a castle becomes a casket; if to swim in
us, if to die in us, if to become
essence in us. like
memoir margins, so original, too graceful for fairer wolves. as we arrive, we
cogitate, we become different. love will remain indicted, over purple
woodblocks, aside a vacuum.
