Mythos becomes identity. The woman becomes an idol. So
made to avoid each other, makes it easier for souls saying, “Hello!” Over years
one arrives to meet self. I can’t see her … she seems incredible … this makes
for disappointment, disaster, and dysfunction: no person should be perceived that
way. Logos and bias; rust and dust; slow deterioration.
Childhood
memories grow fussy. A first kiss grows hazy.
Knowing how
he responds, learned behavior, shows genius.
She has mastered instruments, desires fierceness,
maybe too, a delicate palm. So
intense in its crescendo—so classical, to have begun at 3 years of age.
In
trying to remain cheerful, in presence of an animal, so gorgeous, it aches,
hurts, passion has never been sated. We should stop here. We should permit
intuition to sing. In all of understanding, recruit knowledge, so sore its
beauty.
Poise
of Cicely Tyson. Style of Audrey Hepburn. Penmanship of Maya. To travel into time, to move particles, to
return to an extraordinary creature.
Made
immortal—to angst and concern, to have lived in my arms.
