born naïve, aging at pace, fields
filled with flowers and ferrets and mongooses. to pluck a begonia, to nestle a
jamesia, so caught in the storm. the nightsong in the songbird, the unveiled
locket, to have chased like winning through all loses; Nietzsche would be in
tears. much panting during contrition. to adore in sights, vicious in channels,
pledging allegiance to angst and anxiety. much an ethical woman, so torn, so
immediately beautiful. wheeling a fervid curse, a spell on all that see, so
much a rival of the meadows; leaping, galloping, some mare in tears and mud and
chasing the blue waves; more in charity, charmed to have interests, much more a
soul tying many knots. more in primal aches—more in detriments—too delicious to
deny; a woman’s envy, the same in hate, so cautious to understand the woodsmoke.
a chemic essence, a neat body, a set of picture-perfect gazelles; and
cankerworm is about—aside palmerworm—so many more to hear Lamentations; sweet,
tender devastation, poetic excellence, perfection of the feeling to its expression.
into an upsurge, riding a shark’s back, so benthic the seas have lusted for her
charms. with jazz blazing, the last on the horizon, to enter, lost, sad, and elated.
Dear Miss, the tides are confused, if
speaking to a mystery—to furnish some cry, to exist like kingdoms in the far
North, as to have associated with Nebuchadnezzar. a child of higher zooming, a
man rushing through Babylon, we often insult California; the altar is fraught
with spirits, in passing by, it wafts near and selects a haven, a hell, it
surely was surprised. we never know—in size or stature—the anxieties another is
carrying—the wobbly chairs, the day we heard, “The Glory Hath Departed.” such
methodologies, or biblic science, debating ethics with St. Paul. in more cups
and cues, the drink of the Passion, to have felt in depth another human.
