roses bleed fur. foxes are incompliant, made vicious,
with no political agenda—outside of living, like forest rain, most tropical
scorpion, deadened souls, eating poison, to morph into dragonflies. the soft
fragrance of the beloved, those Nicaraguan features, the scent of psychoses,
the rare absence of poverty—so haughty, brave, indignant—fleeing fires, a rebel
in arms, so much violence for a peaceful people; the burnishing sunshine, the valiant
flame – as upon a dream, locked in a person, when looking at the beloved – it’s
hard not to lust, as to die, a filler inside a scream – an atlas, losing
direction. flowers en-sound us, the hounds are sniffing and sneezing, the
caskets are above the tombs; birds are chirping most wildly, the fantasy is
going someplace, springtime has become the huntress, her agony, the pleasant
song of colliding into an ocean—golden hands, velvet fog, silken worms; the
moistened palate, the can of chili, the chips filled with sodium. deeper into
the woods, we hear a nightingale and see wild, curious creatures; so naked they
sing, so much a whirlwind, upon instruments, sure beautiful nymphs and banshees;
with stars whispering, oak crackling, rosy bud and scents and trees – as into
an atmosphere.
