kindness,
like a new agenda. needing a decent soul, uncured, like a rolling miracle.
such
a dearth of you, with remnants of you, a man leases his happiness in you.
so
esoteric, such in gin, until eyes gloss over.
it
was life in you. it was pleasure in you. it was surprising to win in you.
such
in secrets, some overlap, with deep greenage embedded softly.
off
a roof, into a lagoon, splashing indelicacies—those curly grins, felt in
trauma, it was hell making it with you.
palm
deep in soil, eating raspberries, fingers filthy.
a
whit insane, like gifted, so composed, so loose, more ingredients for disaster—the
boss page, the infant needy, if love was purple, I’d paint myself.
pen-minded,
ink hell, looking for something no one might experience; if to adore or love,
would it satisfy, as dead or alone, or machines in terrors?
presuming
rain, a little ash tray, ate hemlock, came back, like searching for colleagues.
kindness,
like a new agenda, most apologetic to Jesus.
so
undesigned, so prolific, so much to die for a soul.
