while
eating pistachios, I see a face, most mystic, where I idolize the imperfections.
the day has been strenuous, rereading innuendoes, that face keeps appearing in
me. I can’t have the face; I can’t love the face; it just keeps appearing. I have
a theorem, one in time, our minds form portraits in other minds. some position,
to see the face, erased from anything making sense. I see a face, thorough into
its image, its impression, where I can’t kiss the face. I abrade myself,
becoming rougher, I chafe legs, minds, arms, screams. the face is with me. her
treasured aura. her defensive ways. she knows not to give an entrance. the face
is power—strong accent—more waves than tides. I jaunt to break silence, she
looks, discourages any advances. a soul is foolish, I withdraw, I have reality,
I still see the face. oh Fey, into orbits, soft miracles into jettisons—the vile
background, the secure husband, while comfortable with me seeing the face.
sweet arable land, so far into its lea, arranged to surrender at the estuary.
so much iron steel, so ferric into my ribs, I have seen the face.
