I was never as patient as a therapist. I was never as
convincing as a father. And I was never alone while thinking I was. Over color,
daffodils, and non-exoneration; over cups of tea, eating mangos, palming a principle;
to have adored like it meant winning—none understood, some tug beyond
rationalization; turquoise clouds, skies enveloped, deep evolution in souls;
maize grass, so underfoot, without a church in the state.
Violet begonias, Vegas arcs, Rome tendencies—running into
myself, looking at a ghost, asking for mercy; lavender sunflowers, stars made
of dice, to siphon courage. I don’t have the correct feeling—whatever it may be—so
how do I know?
Burning firebrand, listening to Jazz, counting
syllables—a younger me, languid thoughts, sublime poisons—searching for
symmetry and opera.
