searching through corridors, courtyards, country
sides—if to find us; pausing in a lost city, walking streets, reaching for a
face, a dream, a vision. so close we shift, I don’t know you, to have so much
care for boxes, cedarchests, at the gates; pitching coins, painting souls, too
far away—to feel enchanted; pain and pleasure, neat and spasmatic, cold and
icy. our paradise, your skills, so many to complain of surrealism—the art of
valleys, purgatorial reality, to smile, jotting into one’s life—the mind of heaven,
to feel chosen, with passion made reclusive. freedom as a discussion, rain into
his mind, rivers through her soul … paradise and war, tugged and delivered,
loved and hated—all by one encounter; piccolo silence, fluting a miracle, piano
enchantment … violin genetics, such prisoners of happenstance, souls broken,
swimming, aloft one last channel.
