since the creation of their being these
words have haunted us: love, sin, serenity;
like victims of their pain and dynasty;
rolling in their odor, in love with their
bounty, pride, anxiety, and paradox.
I have nurtured insanity—plucked hell
from haystacks, burning firewood, gawking
at freedoms, not freedom, with tickets
for such raw, confusing definitions.
what is love that it hurts so bad? or the
notion of sin, the deficit of good,
the deep, dark presence of arrogance, in
essence, cleaving to its attraction, with
a muscular claim to serenity?
