Saturday, January 1, 2022

Partly I Believe, Maybe Unthreaded

 

not jealous, leaping a thin cliff, to grip with claws those seams: brass trumpets, glass sickness, years at tense combat; to sense with passion, a swirling conclave, overcasts are demanding. the polished mistake, to plead an audience, to ask Love does as greatness; our saving faces, albeit, souls are numb, our fleeces covered in treachery. the scolding eagle, a reflexive machine, a portico bearing witness. our tempest attraction, tempest warmth, to endue souls, unbeknownst: gamut of rules, you-in-me, behaviors become apparent: guilty piths, gutty noises, righteous expositions—laughs a priest, a cradle, philosophies, sodden in marrow: bone leakage, serene knitting, spectacular aggravation.

more ashamed, a gifted curse, miracles in hollowness: twofold anxiety, taciturn resemblance, quelled, a loud audience. our statures with illness, our citadel emotions, artifice omens: trickster of seeds, reality as contagious, must resist an inner sensation: anthropomorphic ponds, soothsaying, our eyes undifferentiated wailings: introspective swords, likeness to antiquity, rabid at moments—sweet gentility is beauty, as beauty isn’t whole, cries ache for longing: medical files, at leisure those rudiments, truths as buried.

The Sentiment

  The Sentiment    It tends to matter—each pursuing holy armor. It leans into a desire to feel pure, clean, sacred and such. I never underst...