those
tiny footprints, on the tiny creature, just learning to crawl; the play bunny,
the green snake, the drool, and yelps, and playfulness; so gothic for adults,
so strained, looking into spaces—hoping for happiness, hoping for explanation,
trailing ideals, and ideas, searching for the inexplicable. always needing
more, never quite satisfied, I suppose the hope is—there is more. like upon some sphere, as to appear, some
creature so enthralling, so encompassing, by soul in skies, by dreams and rites
and damages; so much courage, to have been proven wrong, no remorse for
subtleties—either blatant proof or nothing. more for the dreams, in the vestibules,
with passion blazing into the universe. only One struck the dances. only heaven knew the arts. the cathedrals are beautiful. chants from
Notre Dame—Bishops and nuns—the campus priests.
so exposed to silence, enveloped in silence,
given to old memories in silence; the party of the souls, the movement of the
spirits, the pride of the one giving birth; the gorgeous bride, the church as
groom, the theologian coerced to repent; by measure of forces, by something
private, if to tell interpretation—is to be ostracized.
so fair
the leopard, still arranging spots, it’s a long ways to the first meeting. so
skewed at points, so alive those seconds, one wailing cry!
