we sway side to side, invisibly, earth is so round.
made flat in its testimony, its thrill, its killing. so accursed, each word is
a grave, no one quite fathoms why those genius folks retired; each key is
resurrection, entering into a compass, thrust through by sentences
the madness of the rapture, caved inside, rabid, in
stillness, appalled by the sunny rays.
she would appear in the dirt of the depth of the
dying. formed to torture,
to endure the torture, to wade through waters—
with blacks, Africans, Hebrews, Lebanese souls—flying into
grayness, scudding across plains, like swans hit ponds—the fifth of the
surprise, the reason for the sin, areas made too beige to determine facts.
most include souls, not in totality, a soul in tulips,
amethysts, juleps, and/or, jamesias …
as time
invades, gutting excellence,
thriving, singing, daffodils at intimacy, so
pulled away, so near and close, it took a short time
to refocus—in which, with error, a man may fall again.
this is the hell: we experience embarrassment—we bounce
back atwitter—but in growth, it is that it happens like cycle and vice.
in moving with speed. in quickness of faith. one will
risk derision.
the snare was cast. to have respect for the circumference,
the rules, never a dry eye, but never a feeling of utter dissatisfaction,
albeit, we fret the width of the mountain—the days scribing tablets, or what
the community is pursuing into numen.
