I would if I knew. Only by trial.
The wild heaving wilderness.
Part exhausted. Love knew power. I’ve longed
for the frontier.
Like cutting onion, tears wailing, so
delicate, so sincere.
Loving seems dangerous. Violins and pianos and sorts.
To have died thinking too much. To have adored, lost as we sing. An unsung
aesthetic. A pouty faced ornament. Many at miracle. Many at song. So cleansed,
so filthy, such is vicissitudes and vacillation. Supplied as it would hurt
hearts; secured in illusion, as it would unhinge dreams. Arms reaching the
delusion sure won, certain in uncertainty, abashed at a high state.
Age becomes apparent, negotiating
with intellect, and the cello has
memories: logging data, sensing
energies, framing art, as it delivers
a miracle.
