the season isn’t gentle. a plate of
red snapper with broccoli, the soul in its era.
the recent exchange—days of
accusations, lilies and spawning and webs.
core knowledge, dependable
knowledge, to come to zero influence.
contentions argued for, concerned
about infatuation, realizing—there must be a need.
feelings underfoot, like theological
conundrums, it amazes how dogma will ditch some hard to discuss questions.
an itchy scalp: a soul’s dilemma;
killed a tender whit inside.
how to say I love you, without ever
meeting you?
many will fight me on that point.
the koan is difficult: envision the
soul’s soul.
dragonflies hover closely.
my senses have been enthralled.
I would never, I believe, eat octopus.
leaping in cultures, admiring
exotic creatures, ruminating upon forest endeavors. the odds are difficult.
at love with silence or superstition—hoping
for eternal romance, or substance in the silence.
hearts do inventory, a soul might
communion, but only one knows with quasi-certainty.
I imagine slain majesty, a grown
person, a spirit in the souls.
maybe a bull-ant, or bees inside,
or honey in a lion.
(You became life, after two
escapes, now we hear manic laughter.)
Love is a debutante, a scriptural
lawyer, a reborn sacrifice.
she carves me, some distinct pain
in me, something done, unbeknownst, or innocent.
much caving science, or kissing
invisibility, or a few needing a guarantee. yes. but will the promise be
cherished, never assaulted, treasured into the next life?
