the house churns to its defenses,
made immortal:
pure indecency,
rabid hearts,
a raving
soul—parted in twain, those made
fire,
to have mercy,
so cagey, too alert, pain
becomes ashes …
flapping,
hypnotic, pulled into whirling, one
last crux, one last kiss, much
more into
passion.
the fury is in flames, an aglet on
angst,
or so we believed.
falling out of skies, plummeting into
earth,
it’s called love.
so analyzed, so accursed, such
paradox— fervor, deaths,
raised in crops, palming corn,
it would be more love.
into an open face, the world
watching,
soft flickers,
mystic whispers, formed in
nowhere—slithering to oceans, or
treading caimans,
wrestling with sloths;
the fever of existence, the actor’s
gift, torn apart, laughing
ironically.
