Like a child, taking it at face
value, needing more clarity. I was accused of suspicion, when it shouldn’t be,
while it keeps muddy—like mire, like stealth, sly and uncaring. People
are uncertain. Strength is
possession, while needing a certain outlook, some pristine image. If we look at
humans as unclear/unclean, embarrassment will show its nature; if humans are
clear/clean, our dealings are pure, desire isn’t filthy—with red tape, dotted
lines, and loopholes to examine. I wash my hands, ask certain questions, remembering
what it feels like to be clear and clean.
Gallicas are growing—in a patch near zinnias—an older woman plucks one a
day; golden eyes, small frame, delicate hands, in sandals, exquisite feet. A
long dress. A fitted blouse. A brilliant smile. She must come to herself—everyone
knows her aura; everyone greets her energy. The simplicity of the beauty of the
graces. I can’t see the rain, while
it pours in, the lady is a widow; someone once graced her arc, pledged to live
eternal, so much passion in one glance.
I imagine aging with a friend, much history between us, too much to calculate;
the mathematics, the science, mixed with miracles and eyes probing cake and
creams.
