all I
have are these ashes, they float on
time.
meeting
was kismet, scientific attraction.
muscled
pains in our eyes, Angelou on
wires.
it
wasn’t our song, neither our art, it was
hostility,
unkempt misery, perfect
melancholy;
fingers fiddling foil, diaries
delving
deeper, river rapids rolling. I
contain
silence, eat substance, sail
contours—dying
in these breaths, skeptic
of
kindness, knotted by sophistication. I
heard
a serious voice, it screamed out
fiercely,
it was silent.
beholding
those lenses, smelling of Irish
rum,
giggling at private sorrow. it
seems
steady, it has a nameless name, I
have
sought a nameless name. deep
violet,
fiery, secluded, vicissitude eyes—
goodly
dying, goodly living, life is
soon,
too soon.
I heard
a voice—it spoke dreams, it
wailed
out epitaphs, epithets, kindness—
in a
sudden second; it begged for patience,
claimed
its country, a person without
a
country; it was vicarious, desperate for
acceptance,
brough near on a ship.
