pure
schism—amazed by sure love, sentenced to paradox.
inventory
is livid, vivid, skating; some feeling drags me, bites me, has a hard time
laughing.
today
is today. tomorrow is tomorrow. yesterday is for inventory. a few tautologies,
nothing clairvoyant, one looks into an undertone.
decorated
shrapnel, intuited chimera, chemical designment.
touched
in mind, normal intensity, normal reciprocation; to feel like a human, to move
pieces, to execute puzzles.
linen
is spotty, medium blue tears, orchids around a coffin.
something
might undress its esoteria, something might go underground.
deep
purple paradox. holiday sadness. different meanings to different ears.
upon
something too distinct to ignore, a soul may love with all it has, steeped in
seagrass, turquoise fire, puffy peach charms.
most
thistles come early, or late, or not at all. so much is paid—in saying nothing—where
everything is said.
upon
a mistyrose, next to a primrose, aside a lady tilling soil: sickle in waist,
seeds upon dirt, trimming her dynasty.
out
of my wildest obsession, too curt for love, too oversaturated to understand
destiny.
