Too many cleats to count—too many attuned to charge,
despite, rivers in skies, and holiday eggnog. To decipher each nuance, afar in
calculations, too close to feel normal. Blessed at life, aged secrets, culture,
specter, souls living like justice—left to determine, embedded rites, fixed repentance,
those dice of men; made otiose at moments, futile in time, searching for
fruitage, vine, and grapes. Most biblic souls, finding mercy, reciting Psalm
after Proverb. In measuring another, there’s variance; in loving another, there’s
temperament; in sensing each other, there’s mastery of mathematics, dawn in
December, sunny skies left with chills.
It must have been beautiful—the training, the drilling, the nuances; it
must have been intimidating—the stress, determination, the scar as it heals. It, as in the souls of souls, the spirits
of spirits, must have agendas—fretting what we see, alarmed by what’s hidden,
so hermetic a galaxy in draperies.
