paradise
was indicted. we’d love against redemption. actions vet words.
complete
access, inward harmony, regarding reception.
the
parish was nearby. we’d catch vibrations. nothing forcing conversion.
storms
were tethered. fairy tales are true. I shall not tarnish experience.
agreement
is unspoken—behavior is expected—if discussion is needed, it feels uneasy. it
breaks romance.
made
nauseous by absence, uncured for promise, latched inside.
where
have I gone? paradox chains weather. can it become human, too human?
across
the park, near a garden, sits a novelist. she scribbles for hours, looking
intently, biting her pencil. I ask if others approve. I ask if it matters. I need
to know if it’s intrusive.
down
a pathway, along a xyst, far in the regions, is a bench. I didn’t sit.
she
carries a notebook. she writes long poems. I have read some. she’s an artist,
it comes with blotches, she shall extend her hand—flaunt her muscle—and push
forward.
