The
latter is behind us—aside us, right in front of us; never a thought without
remembrance, never an inclination without a flashback, never a curse without
its justification. I was with
immediacy in some small advance, left with grimace, twisted stars, agonizing over
some middle world. A thousand lights
between us, wattage reframed, aching in a part unknown to touching. (Granny spoke of it never ending, she was
maddened by it, most ignored her understanding.) I speak to intimacy as it appears, vague
as it is, ignored in turn, asking for awakenings, tribal as thieves, the temple
suffers from violence, and is confronted by force. A soul plays piano, or fiddles a flute,
debating thoughts, listening to intuition, with unremarkable doubts. Never knew
XY and Z, to become such as it demands—those riddles, to apologize for what is
now apparent. I was with haste in some tallness of assertion, as you watched, not
much further than I, not much to cleave to, putting life into a spouse, a love,
as it connotes perfection of social ranks. I ask time to be gentle. I ponder a
brighter world, topaz clearings, many more assertions backed by facts.
