like a gnat in a cave, grappling,
bumping walls, it’s so dark. like a meerkat in its desert, sweltering, thirsty,
nibbling a cactus. so many scenarios, a wild hummingbird, a rabid mockingbird,
chasing daylight, eating evening, winnowing the winds.
she owned an iguana, prayed to a
mongoose, befriended a cobra. many sky styles, feeling exiled, enlove with love’s
ideals; pride screaming, a woman at her side, a gent at her palm, glad to have
located irony; enveloped in velvet, wearing leather, sleeping wide awakened.
gossamer raids those caves, eyes opening
slowly, sure livid, lies have rented faiths—a jacket is bleeding, cotton pours
out, the zipper is broken; so unzipped, leaking into streets, dusty particles
whisper—those gates, the fence, so many waiting for surety.
with spider legs, or octopus tentacles,
an attack on happiness—fire in droves, anger building dams, a need for peace of
person.
wait to find her, wait to believe
in fey, wait to be deliberate.
she seems sentimental. one would
feel in seriousness—some kindness, where is it from?
there’s a sky rash, requiring relief,
needing ointment.
next to a perch, near an apple
tree, hovers an orange robin—so beautiful, so golden, so deliberate.
sporadic movement, chaos with
reason, one might not see the red stars.
a palm of lava, a dream in souls, a
sea filled with sea beasts; while nothing is left, hope rebuilds, it goes into
its cycle.
her voice is opera, making
excellence, the tide has ruined her hut.
too much truth is fatal. too little
truth is vicious. enough truth — there isn’t such a thing.
