Over dull feelings—aside blasé cacti—the desert is
fullness; with camels listening, scorpions nesting, and dung beetles fraught
with filth. It hasn’t been what’s perceived. I emphasize: it hasn’t been what
others perceive. Days have drained us; nights have been restless; compromise
has dented imagery—by anxiety to sing, an inward speech, with energies
clashing.
Plangent grayness—sonorous patience—alike to popcorn
and peanut butter, alike to a coal walk.
Many measures to examine; life can become numbed,
numbing, many stunting features.
Working
memories, returning memories, stirring latent emotion—to have for passion—one science,
and spotted dreams.
Into
puzzles, jigsaw dimensions, traipsing trenches, wrapped in dry earth; looking
at skies, flying mirrors, deep black galloping—through sludge, marshweed, and
sandy grains; chainsawing atmosphere, unlikely declarations, made realer, it
can never be mentioned. More
wending
like kites; living parts of struggle; cultivating deciduous wounds.
