Centipede slithering,
through caves and dungeons, in the far back is a cauldron; through eyes with
dreams, sure fierce visions, to have given pride to children; so much a dear
passion, so great an Asiatic sky, sure tender a stirring earth: by fire we give,
by cedarchests and letters from wars, made imperceptible—value in perfection,
lines broken, cabbage and lettuce and ranch. Her soul is excellence, making
spirits praise, such a naked personality—fraught by integrity, berries made into
perfumes, pomegranates sliced in halves; fur coat fever, iguana indifference, chameleon
blending(s) … to have lived in one night, to have played bottles, at love and
some ideal; before science, before New Age passions, serpents slithering: a
cold summer, a warm winter, autumn filled with red, orange, and browns. Such teal
treasures, so indirect, framed in billiards, if to seduce sanity, after years
of philosophy; silver shadows, cave cadence, art made ariel.
