the gravel is speaking. the novel is
silent. many cryptic novellas—mother is shy, the spirit, those years to Bourbon
Street: prostitutes, rivaling sentiments, crystals and raw liquor: daughters
ingesting rain, if the soul, those tales of serpents; to grieve with panic, agaze’d,
flitting through temperaments. the hour of dying, thick glass melting, phones born
internal. those micro raptors, or Dracorex brains, famished for clarity. I loved a mistake, the ballet is prose, the
woman is cryptic; a watching heart, the steep affectation, many chimes against love;
by a gut alarm, a gut saxophone, our flung instincts: a man cringing, his guts
filleted, his canvas thus guts and bones. Roman colors, Greek philosophies, a positivist
curse; if to breathe healing, our theodicy by rules, fretting for frittering
our frantic free-agencies: turquoise ponds, sable eyes, hazel aura.
