Over cornbread and wine, sweet biscuits and tears, to
love as abused, only one gentle palm—to have known serenity, to have felt
sincerity, over soul food and damages. A spirit dies in absurdity, so Camus,
trying to undo self as a stranger. The way the wildness rolls over hills; the
sin as it pleasures unto passion; the variety in the person trying to adore us.
It seems like hell, looking at the love in you, attempting to match something
surreal—the fight of the lion, the majesty of the wilderness, the coppice as a
pledge for survival. So much motion—so many waffles—breakfast is better with
you. Right hand to my heart, left palm to my forehead, too afraid to go with
inclination. Right knee to concrete. Ring between fingers. Asking for eternity
to bless a small soul like me. Two palms together, both knees bent, forehead to
dirt, savior, and sanity.
