Got word from
spirit, and Love has been watching, reading and jotting and note taking;
furious here, enlove there, begging for glitter; silken pains, zinnia chills,
early morning survival, and Love has remained gorgeous. I was southern charms,
impetuous speech, aged in some unique sense; fire as it churns, words from my
crib, memories from my father, and Love knew, bled science, loved smarts,
adored her culture. I ached for feelings, raved over emotion, daring her to
separate the definition. Losing senses, so pendulous, and mother is a
ventriloquist, and Love is akin to that line: womanhood; such were flaming
dice, gambling to get free, never met what owned integrity. I could sing her
song, by writing poetry, if she deigned to surrender to something primitive: a
dear lemur, so astray, and Love remained gorgeous. So cold on spontaneity, so
keen on intellect, I imagine the sentences she writes.
