The sun is out,
those centipedes are moving, I reminisce on Kansas. A different excellence,
maybe show me glory, so alphabetized. A sickle to soil, a feeling taken to
heart, and medieval silhouettes—to come to depth, to plumb the earth, feeling
in parts, a curse. Born into sludge,
rinsing daily, asking pertinent questions—of deacons, priests, the bishops,
feeling homesick, if to skate heaven, a spirit lost to eternity; a long while,
sundown prayers, akin to the nightmare mantis; such a sunburst, on a Wednesday
morning, alike to a feeling in rain—the pouring down, upon flesh and soul, a
cool evening, a sin to recollect. Back
at it, a mini-crucible, reminiscing on the inner dimensions, a city filled with
miseries, a culture born to struggle.
Many say things, I’ve analyzed it, no one escapes the interior debates …
drinking sugarberries, eating sugar-apples, and life was never so sweet. Blessed enough to see triumph, some great
adventures, it isn’t all disgraces; the turn of souls, the spirit grinning, a
fret to love justice.
