The dead might listen—to pain, arcs, and anguish—the living
might analyze those maxims, with a few caveats to give in return.
He was telling me. I remembered that technique. Much
anxiety over a symbol.
In adoring the vault, readily
those charms, angst from a simple kiss.
Life is full in experiences, fraught by emotion, framed
in feelings.
Surefire fatigue, kinetic furnace, naked on the inside—livid
at understanding—the algebra, those indexes, the entire farm.
The soul rationalizes love, humans, debate, and
reasoning—filled with contrast, comparing society’s daughters, those vanguard souls,
each gust, ever into glens, flooding the meadows.
The dead might not listen—to happiness, arts, and jocularism—the
living might determine a person, such sweet categories, deep into soul, and
unfledged.
Sheer futility—the war of numbers, by ache of
survival, to have loved sight unseen: to never know those mornings, prior to
coffee, to awaken with fierceness about the loins, a tongue filled with anxieties:
to never fathom each game, its insistence, its memories—palming gypsum, fretting
naivety, bashful at mind, confident in countenance, observed like animals.
