give
but a glimpse, those uncrooked veins, by the strain of living slowly. those
felt emotions, those golden cries, to have adored, like whales at seas.
a
sandbox filled with wood, tacks, nails, drums. laid in carpet, sand, dark
brown, arms remembering their visitors.
if
you came to me—the stars as framed—so silent with intuition; like prison hearts,
minds made naked, how have you gotten in?
like
pensive wires, walking into inferno, never such irenic beauty. the curse of
calmness, the curse of intensity, the curse of anything found in silence.
so
afloat to feel you, so stressed to have known you, surety in soul to have heaved
in clouds.
most
float, agaze in time, running in stillness: mind racing, flames in wicks,
refilmed in spirit; the days you make fire, the mire in such presence, reaching
into a vacuum. the hue must mature, dying as it lives, ignited by softer palms.
most
candescent ignorance, it was death or swarms—of gnats, those palatial hands,
smoke where pain was irrelevant, it cried in passion, it ached for freedom, you
have denied replete peace.
the
tale is made turpentine, the flame is turquoise, aside an armoire ruminates a
diary—atop a kadupul flower, next to a sink of tadpoles, inside of minced
emotions.
