On a simple, arduous sense, a day filled by
adjectives, a photo, a glance, sudden into mystery—the way it falls, water for
baptism, fire for authentication, so smooth the way she watches, a permanent
bypassing, to call and listen to a dial tone. I was monopoly, in dreams,
subject to castling and checkmate; the bass so heavy, in midday dicing, to
mince and move—those claiming us. “What do you write about?” I gave a vague
answer. Close to you, avoiding you, and someone chases for you: if to sense asceticism,
it drives a person madness, with eczema flaming, for nerves are unsteady, and
intellect is uneasy. Too much to seduce unknowingly, too much to become self,
and too great to swoosh through the 405n. Right into a living room, right into
loving unknown to soul, pondering another human, and drifting into spaces, and
lost for intuition strikes before conscious mind.
