When it came deeper inventory and art; when it opened
more tears at first, grayer understanding, pomegranate wounds; to have meant
more, undetectable as it feels, and sticky spirits; too crowded in solitude,
fathom contradiction, with sound making its debut. Afore a sanctuary, kneeling
before sanity, swooshing into countryside; and Honor ached, with Love smiling,
draped in water—our seventh baptism. Subtle motion, signifying Love, more
passion for imagination—too actual to speak it; and Art was beautiful, khakis
and blouse, nicer kicks—the way we adore, so much rain in innocence, a greater
woman would try. I ate emotion, never in diamonds, too much cave-blood; with
Crochet being gorgeous, rooms made of apricots, musical chairs, and damages. The
last comes quickly. The first palms for clarity. In between absorbs both ending
and beginning.
