Mosaic frontal piece, atop marble flooring, the
chimney is made of topaz and soot. In listening to you—
wisdom peeked and peered into silence—waltzing as it
flourished, dying as it breathes, falling as it
stands—short rolling pains, taller anxieties, much
grayness in tacit wilderness—the dense poems,
liberated in editing, to come across one from class;
an art for stressors, nor the moon most secluded, sipping
sky minerals. In loving you, remaining across a
continent, exaggeration afforded, with deep and
darker elements—infused into dreams, suffused into
spines, a flowing out into the universe. To
have loved when it was unfinished. To have lived when
it was painted. To have rights where it became
illegal—the serf and wand, those cultural experiences,
most with history embedded in travesty. Lost
majestic artisan—arrested attic—by mystic myths, by
lecture to have won science; watching delicate souls,
formed in abundant caves, threaded into a frenzy—the
madness of poets, stories acted in terrors, finding
creativity in sudden trance; more welkin signs, arcane
pangs, a secret at the core of nature.
