A soul will seesaw
those inner laws, too proud to announce Love’s arrival. And time seems
irrelevant, made important, the body aging; running out of ingredients,
utilizing nutmeg, with arguments for why we shouldn’t, with dreams we could,
mouthing off at ghostly feelings—the chills whispering, framed in portraits, releasing
Love. Floating on lava by miracle of the cherry tree, aching like cold bones—arranged
to love again, sheer resistant to those apples, with minds haunting through
vines; mere humans, fretting immortality, not realizing the question, its
depth, the debt of the body. The skies are jamb. California is quicker. If made
slower, we’d crumble.
I read the bulletin—rebels settling
at the farm—wraiths, as if, to swoosh and swish through interior—a calling in
some direction, a campus full of beginnings, a soul born anti-social – as if,
with dedication to separation, eating licorice.
Filled with Love, familiar with the
bourgeois, knowing it can get better; the grand showdown, at sundown, and no
one showed up.
The podium, her singsong voice,
years of trepidation and triumph: mind opulence, classical worth, spirit lungs
and liturgy, so charmed to have existed.
