Wheeling. Made into essence. Palming
interior faucets. Opposed by greater
music. Loving
is difficult, by no
tremendous
fretting, alike to a losing kiss.
Dying is whimsical; linoleum
tiles, tooth scraping tongue, misbehaved,
born to topaz mystery, achieved in
as untouched, printing souls in coconut.
I didn’t know normal eyes. She worked
at
it. I felt envious.
Cinnamon tints.
Elasticity reach. No one enters
without keys, pianos, a little humor;
watched closely, loving as freedom, a
vine in terrors, a horn correlated, a
message at sanity, appalled one may
exclaim comforts. Tugging at minerals.
I noticed
at seconds, with heartbeats
come chi in clouds, others are doing
channels; others are communing with chi.
What, if anything, a desire to
answer life?
To un-debate deeper questions?
To come to certainty on spirit?
I would see beauty in abstracts, aloft
a feeling made vague. I would think of
art, chi would appear, her name remains
in silence: hissing at times, buried in ink.
Wheeling. Rolling into aches. Remiss on
points—palming criteria, eating
unlikeness.
Rain will fall cautiously and cry.
