The gift
you give is the pain you live. You’ve been swimming through mud, bathing in rubbish,
un-forgetful, drastic, and part unborn. You’ve sacrificed honor, secluded in
valleys, most a queen for onlookers. Surreal in countenance, mystic in
practice, mantis in sullenness. The gift you give is the pain you live. Such
funny workings, so distinct in swimming, soaring through dirt and desert and dirge.
It amazed the people, a doctorate is seven years, internship, and an excellent,
seismic energy. You become the phantom. You sing the song-witness. Such willingness
to swim—so gray with existence, so climatic with insistence, so understudied. To
have become magnificence—sitting with a lonely feeling, so popular with the
greatest of souls. Where a soul imagines,
sickles to roots, silt to sands, balls in midair—the punt and probe, the steak
or salmon, the life and drink: joy in sadness, redemption and repeat, arms at
length.
