I can’t carry it, wings bent, love boiling. I must
carry it, lost sentences, fewer words, needing more to live on. Maybe we’ve
met, some string, connecting a smile, a regret, tension in a bottle—by fever in
jest, by life as best, to rest aside each other—to never touch hands. Made
invisible, palming underbrush, eating filthy grapes; many laughs, many more
burdens, pray Spirit one glory. Chameleon souls. Jaguar instincts. To feel akin
to a miracle—all we ever said, all we passed over, so charmed to have met
temper. Pupils shaking. Phantoms hushing. At moments uneasy to meet eyes. So
great in strength. So much life left. So endearing to surrealism. Held by a
string. Souls knew first familiars. Graphed in by genetic spirits. To have
wealth of heart, mind of remedies. The work of your art, soul, so much life
left, a scholar, mother, friend and daughter.
