She’s nameless,
brilliant, I can’t compete. They say the genius is awkward, unsocial. I don’t
know, but she acts self-conscious, speaking into herself, watching, she
remembers each move she makes. I admire the hurting—there’s a secret to the
genius.
I daze into skies,
leaping in heart, not a peep those days—with penalties for self, a gift in
pains, trying harder might be met with longing. I imagine she’s composing:
satire, made teleological, at a space inside, made dark, semi-suicidal, reading
Sylvia.
She’s a machine—destined
to flourish, each floret mile is a triumph; her mind is egotistical, her gait
is humble, her mind is too much to understand. We try in pleasures—looking at
her, sensuous passes, some she entertains, some she devours.
I was in awe—I knew
something was different, for I have certain a dungeon, in a mountain, near a campfire.
Much firebrand, terror underbrush, a side eye—I’m not ready, I fathom more,
those banks, those ships, they sail, they never come back.
The soul says, “It’s
ripe,” the spirit says, “It’s too late.” I might find a life in motion, built
upon concrete, withstanding tides, across seas, it happens, we get used to our
normality—the excellent thief, the outstanding addict, the life we try to
insist upon.
She has vanished—somewhere
afar, never in a screen, on my island, ever into a dream. She shall love,
adore, never settle, yearning for billows; she will sink low, read a poem, turning
depression into radiant anger—she will outdo survival.
