I was a foolish man. I desired your love and
admiration—coming from warring regions—the fierceness of its capture, the
spirit made of cuffs, those treasured palms, hands made glory, to die in us; so
glasslike, so breakable, to sit, listening to elegance—fertilized for
affection, and rhythm, art and innocence. Looking becomes different for adults—the
wow wanes, with pangs to become enamored; it was easy—thriving as we danced—hating
how we treated romance—pews watching, feuds raging, opinions heightened. I was
a foolish man. I should have thrown it to luck, chance, life in roses, petals
in liquor, to love and adore, choir and jungle. I never heard you, as it lives,
made defensive on third glance; sultry minx, filthy cleanness, paradox and
dreams—so tattered by philosophies, never mere an armchair, listless brushwork,
languishing voice, tapestry dialogue.
