Minds ruminate, the soul dreams, our
cultures redeem, our psychologists are searching out rain.
Afar this round, this tremor, the
rumors are kleptomaniacs.
This woman with screams, this
friend our past lives, the present skeptic.
A foolish complaint. So wise in
hindsight. The blend, the blueberry blouse, the teal-green tassel.
Turquoise Bentleys, vestibule
nightmares, cursed to adore Love.
The whale is flipping, a seal in
jaws, nature is blackjack, a true gamble.
The arts are made, the parts are
bodily, we seem to determine Christology.
Kierkegaard made observations. Dante
painted a picture. King Jr. died for history.
I’ll tell a secret: I was fleeing
light. It kept chasing. I still feel the galaxy.
Greece won.
I used to know hearts, the Artificer
changed, the universe is a chameleon.
We might think of Descartes, an
early death, a sedentary life, a profound mind.
It only takes one essay, one poem,
one novel—singing this morning.
The good minister—is a miracle—the spirit
world has many factors.
I was asked to give more. I’ll find
it. With a few faces before me.
The aloof might be rained. The
laughs might shadow pain. Her kindness might be camouflage.
I sat close. She was testing. I
felt her aura. She wanted an error, a problem, while needing approval—the grave
of thoughts, the miracle in—it didn’t occur.
The thesis was mediocre. The last
one was magical. I keep rewriting. It’s missing its initial meaning. I’m losing
the picture.
I had a bag of apples. People are
different. Are we serious?
Staring at jasper skies, mesmerized
by ancient souls, so marvelous to have met us.
