the fever passes. it comes back.
something is regressing. something else is frozen. a few wonderful
thoughts—mandatory trying. many at devotion—to make it blossom, someone is in
there. a collar, a cellar, a reason to soar into heaven. maybe a friend, someone
close to fringes, we keep at battle—rolling into pangs, listening to games,
it’s crazy what one will seduce. private thoughts. language incognito. like a
dozen scheduled to make the leap. much zest about it, much finesse behind it,
more pain to separate it. some elements are too cold to understand—too
excruciating to watch—and it continues despite participation. we keep asking
for the gatekeeper. he's on sabbatical. with so much to lose, appearing to win.
eating fiction, blended with actuality, many dying to serve the fever. so
embedded in drums, skies feeling like luxury and distance, as if one can’t seep
into the realness; so misperceived, at a rising palace, everything is in code,
left for decoding. sullen happiness, happiness, nonetheless, like the edge to
hold a head higher. mirrors are unraveling, flint is walking, thoughts are
clearer these minutes; so effaced by conception, replaced by perception, the
last of the repentant. the interior gods, the blatant contradiction, one willing
the earth to move.
