I was with love, the gray
atmosphere, steered by novels; the inner river, the asbestos for souls, to have
loved beyond credibility.
glamorous make-believe, or still
waters, the (most) holiest souls on our planet; enchanted by begonias, upon a
blue feather, peacocks take position.
dreams would flourish, to have the
glint of pains, love is such a challenge.
the skeleton adores us, so much a
welkin creature, so much a perfected accident—turning into glory.
the opalescent landscape, the irrigating
nights, the earth slurring at times.
to touch our ruins, rising sea
levels, souls in jeopardy. the murmuring spirits, loving the truest beloved,
letting go to tragedy.
a season for leopards and magpies
and nests and dreams; to love a city, like loving a person, seeing earth attack
itself—like slow rot, deteriorating flesh, collapsing into another catastrophe.
the winds of passions, the
turquoise hopes, filled with art and trepidation.
we chance a level of pash, in every
enterprise, revealing some small parts of self. the subtle language, the
filling curse, the possibility another is loving in return.
like the mercy of the seas, the
currents of souls, to hold to one person, like dying to live, like drowning to
love.
flowing constellations, a collage
of instincts, the soul rising towards its motivation. dust and brier, dusky
skies, an infatuation with the poetess; so fair the creature, too raw for
reality, such steel filled with compassion.
oh cultural soul, such deeper
status, real in some sense killing resistance; oceanic dreams, gold in mines,
palming a relic from the Red Sea.
loving one until wounded. observant
of another until it hurts. holding on until no one can see each other.
avenues of love are painted by
suggestion, subliminal fever, running back and forth for passion.
health must be intact, the space
ride is an adventure, atrophy is a problem, chasing the one, one might die
with.
