I love more the fortune of love; the
work is harder, argued by blades of grass. inside a canyon, rafting aside a
ravine, reaching where they dance; dream fever, welkin deaths, bled interior. I
love more the fortune of love; big bashful eyes, Florida sunshine, Mississippi
hips—spinning freedoms, feeling unfelt, laughing at my follies. the height of
Japan, the wisdom of Greece, hieroglyphic lips; so geographic, finding every
island, roaming inner cities—found with grace, poise, a little indifferent—loving
to chance life, sipping Red Rose, worked inside. I love more the fortune of
love; geometry eyes, fingers locked, getting a mud bath. so tight with frets,
Chinese brains, Lebanon legs. much fervent heat, like waterfalls, drenched,
gripped, wrecked inside; to vow eternity, or agriculture, wandering through
realms—too much astrology. a mere ego, so supernal, so preternatural—flipping in
mind, devastated by looks, personality split; southern hospitality, Sufi laws,
Danish royalty. the makings of a person, the screams of a dynasty, upon
northern shores.
