what
would eyes look like on holy souls?
the
sabbath as it sings, auras made about
energies,
softly sung, intrusions coming
outside,
to see most elegant feathers,
torn,
worn, at indisputable clairvoyance;
a
soul aching for favor, yenning for core
affection,
saturated by the doubt.
by
the creatures inside, irrefutable sources,
each
web of thoughts, each banshee,
excited
to dream, to sore, with much in
reticence,
traffic hauntings, privacy
mythical,
inner cathedrals, facing motion.
the
Siege in Waco, some compartment,
reclusion
in public, made richer than
seclusion
in mountains. communal ink,
with
souls and agendas and things good
in
their eyes. justified in trespass, an art
simmering
underground—to imagine
what
distance lives in presence.
the
treasured intensity of violin, the
wretchedness
of the good feeling—turning,
spinning,
shifts for regard, dedicated, the
building
knit by errors. one would desire
gardens
kept clean; the nearby desert, the
mountainous
contempt, if tinkered with—
just
in case, the onslaught will run another
fifty
years; it must, like suffrage rights,
like
freedom rights, there must be
resistance;
it just is, reasoning means
little—history
has fought for her
necessities.
and over yonder, deer fall,
such
curious eyes, left blemished.
