like immature colors, maybe a child,
begging, nay, grieving for an unpreparedness. roving mazilly. hatched, cooked,
underdone. maybe an island, divorced from normality, unthawed, aching from coldness.
busy with an orchard, unlaced by wisdom,
uncomfortable with reflection.
unloosened into society, awkward, needing,
unable to chase.
your air, it
unsettles, those aristocratic eyes, the monster held captive, those tropic
vaults. never a care, with nothing but cares, sworn to be a lady. closets held
shut. carnations held tightly. a mind beheld as a silhouette. a little nostalgic,
here in place, seeing fortune over what has passed. too many grays, too many
immature colors, too much disbelief. always aglow, partly unrealistic, it’s a
right.
too much in me, too undisciplined,
maybe, too disciplined. too much appearance in self, too alert to self, too
late feeding the inner soul. if to surmise, if to know, as did many fighting
the good fight. looking at an hourglass, twiddling with dice, uninformed
concerning a galaxy.
Upon a Van Gogh, drifting into
twilight, jazz in the background—those California dreams, seated at a soul’s
pit, a man’s gut, so much needing in utter belief.
the apogee of sensation, words
tumbling closer, arguments losing their pinch; ecstatic harmony, never to lose
friction, captured in wings too rapturous to move.
