the
treasure is the medium, the medium is the person, the person changes in most souls.
at
femininity, like a coyote on a lamb, like sweet biscuits before mother died.
an
appetite for women, sustained, as for women, with pain in souls as for women.
wondering about a lovelock, so unprepared for aeipathy, passing through an
earthquake.
some
temblor, some terror, not in horrors, rather, in thought-muscles.
so
tender the symphony, so delicate the symmetry, so many years to get it, as
forfeited in one action.
the
bleeding of the sheep, the wolve acting with violence, growling, shifting, with
vehemence. some voiceprint, some telegraph, some spirit at his psyche.
sweeter
serenade, a toddler in a crib, too raw to forget granny’s smile.
at
her with giggles, to see her with shackles, never a ghost more tormenting.
soon
ensouled—by the lights of yore, some just open up! so cantillating, praise like
living, fall apart, grab your catharses.
more
intonating, more intuition, by now, she knows I care. what? we thought? indeed,
it goes deeper!
