the
distance becomes ritual—years become intimate chaos, mothers seem pivotal.
if
time stopped, it would still tick, unless the sun and moon grew stubborn.
I
can’t give her a name—she’s nameless, vital, unconventional.
I
can’t need her that way. it seems irrelevant. we have vowed a sacred
disconnection—so connected.
a
person is complex, contradiction should intrigue, through resistance, it
becomes uncomfortable.
over
the flicker of a wick, upon the peak of authenticity, to have offended the
flicker itself.
so
rabid I was. I reflect on incipience. I spin a top.
too attractive—so loyal—when I think
about capacity, I dream, it can’t be real. too precious, so sad, many gifts—to have
died from literature, to possess many nouns, to utilize verbs with aggression.
I have deep infatuation, deeper
fantasy, allegedly some are sophisticated, others are trying, many are
oblivious.
I wonder about sweat, its taste, its
odor, its texture.
