I haven’t learned sweetberry innocence; I haven’t
heard a voice in skies; I haven’t touched the bluing moon; and justice seems to
rest lethargically. I never knew those that make the eyes—those strawberries
with juices, a craving cry looking for innocence. We never met for pictures,
never sought by photographers, never rushed for fever those lakes those very
arms. By an underbelly pang, an agony, made like a soul in Africa. I haven’t
heard such excitement, eager to adventure, proud of other cultures. I never
gave breath when life was hectic, nor subtracted gusts when times were
disagreeable—by fevers, by clouds, by ether and dance and life; hyssop and
knapweed, as some metaphor, to have neve uttered the greatness of those
dynasties: alike to madness, formed in magic, made closer in majesties: oil paintings,
captured grandness, secluded upon intrusion.
