terrible
instruments, with or without purpose, I met an under-picture.
towing a millpond, aside ancient
burials, our bones are agile. either born to feel unborn, or unborn to feel
born.
oh vibrant tavern, to settle on a
chair, most extravagant mistake.
bless the soul!
the honor is earned—assigned in
countenance, one will cherish her pottery.
the trestle is sanded, the legs are
refurbished, it can’t efface its insides.
days meddling with metals—moments meddling
with memories, hours ignore the sobbing.
certainty is choking, it suffocates, it
unveils macro-feelings.
the voyage was familiar—persons were
flying, excellence was paramount: bowels of diamonds, mummified deposits,
longing for specific lure.
less of a sylvan—knowing deep
imperfection, the wonder of human suffering; once so naïve, pure emeralds with
ghosts, imagining what others might sew; the psaltery of cadence, a windfall, a
skyfall, abandoned to muffled envy; godlike attributes, sensuous memories,
fraught by micro-enigmas.
