the gift is rare, a neat, turquoise
diamond, a make-believe decency—like perfection, elegance, or unsavory, even by
deliverance. Love might become
someone else. we notice a slight discomfort. we sense distance, gates,
dissention. nothing matters as it
does; nothing re-films inside like it does; seeing one in shackles, the mirror
as it dances, to know a meal is no longer peaceful; major undercurrents, an
underbelly, such underpinnings; features appearing, as they do, so easy to
become a friend. it does matter if
one destroys another—at the end of the day—we’re left with our behaviors; so,
ruining there, has no effect elsewhere, if selfsame behavior is aloft and heroic. in essence, two are doing the same thing,
a gentleman, a lady, in different locations; a few are at ease, a soul is at
war, the overt isn’t studying the sub-regions. over the bridge, another is gentle, most
poetic, streaming through galaxies. many gallicas in stars, sweet aromas, chess
and planks and demands; a mélange of emotions, aside a drosera, inside a cocoon.
those pinions so dear, burning firewood, putting palms to firebrand; some dear
creature, the roaming islands, so acute, so affirmed, so distracted—seeking the
life as it aches. the songlike lamp, the table as it wobbles, the flipping as
dolphins bring joy. so difficult to unhear—billows ebb and sing into the skies.
the unheard concerto … the livid arc … the tale told to distract the shark; a
soul upon cirrus pangs, whittling cottonwood, making something destined to hurt
itself.
