I
spin to see it, livid with soul, one heaven for all the lifers.
no
connection at times, removed inside, spatial in a dream.
so
iconoclastic, so perspicacious, so empty—running into halls, fleeing omens, a
last good fire.
most
are planning, so tender the season, so threaded in anxieties;
a
ghostly pain, an inordinate rain, the sun is furious, the flowers wilt, those
fears are with reason.
wolf
dogs for gifts, piccolos for shadows, so treasured the path we ingest.
a
person is affectionate, a river through a corridor, an ocean in a vestibule.
needed
to say something, given an opportunity, albeit, it happened, she never spoke
it.
so
treacherous with deaths, so gorgeous in dying, so wretched is pretend games.
the
less it sings, more is withering, nemesias are waning;
the
more it harbors silence, the more we adore it, tying wire to thoughts.
