the darker miseries, the inner
cocoon, the flagrant deaths
wreaking despair
so aglow
so dead with spunk.
looking for an interception, too
destroyed, so powerful
hunting for a touchdown,
at an invisible arena, angry at the
treatment—like a man, fretting womanhood.
I was livid inside, needing you to
rebuild myth, trampled, disgraced.
a photo, we sit in pieces, the loud
silence. the knicks the scrapes the scars (I dislike cotton, I gave tobacco back,
I buried an ex-slave).
as mind wafts in spirit so caught
in secrets so trapped by the whereabouts. those fingers moving, to sense
sleeping, easiness is pain, as is difficulty. souls are certain in essence if
but to disappoint.
so much an injury so far in its
distance, we behave to a point of resentment.
coincidences?
an argument in progression, many debates,
if life has its design. teleology is presumed, something bringing on encounters,
each new person is a new postulate. moving minds in some mention, concentration
becomes unmeasured.
with chills, trembling, disguises.
houses on seas, islands in living
rooms, closeness: I don’t know you like others do.
so unexplained. so much to faith. abandoned
to trusting. it’s alarming, its captivity, we ask concerning freedom.
I was a secret inside as if they
can’t see, we look for footage.
so skeptical of indictments, refusing
to compute indictments, seeing selfhood as one indictment. so gray, too much
noise, most are set in one direction: progression for interior, procession for
others, procession for existence. (moving souls at attention, it might shift,
it might be fantasies.)
