just absorbed, petering out, climbing
tides—the wave as it cries, the scream in its whale, those walls alongside the
island—so much jumping, many scorpions, one sits inside of guts, scratching,
weaving, a tragic ghost at my intestines.
just the smile, the banshees, the
rain—at zenith in mercy, at hells in witnessing, alert to shadows, eating
miseries.
too long for closure, raving with
ravens, arcs aloof to friendship—surefire tragedy, a child in a room, the ache
has bars, the film is on repeat—ancient techniques, schematic traumas, made
into some creature.
so theater at motion, so pure at
times, watching some gesture, in some portal, pomegranates with red rice. the
soul roaming, negligent in its interrogation, at love so random a tendency:
those courting replies, made diligent in art, so desperate those eyes.
a ship near horizon, so delicate the
appeal, too rough to make it easy; the cedar cross, tigerwood beads, metallic
bracelets.
for a spirit, made internal rabid,
composed by merely a thread—the rosarium tears, rubescent rebirths, at third
place for eternity.
it hast to surpass me—my intellect,
my understanding, it must be a rocket through a maze into a diary—it must exist.
many crocodiles, several eggs,
turtles a century in age: upon a lamp, pulled from under a rock, reborn in a
gentle smile.
