Those
turquoise eyes, the garden, bronze skin, still repenting—a lifelong story. Still
confused, the song inside, moving into silence; a cage with rooms, a chamber
with caves, so close to sadness; to fret a beat, heart-drums, looking,
trembling, at some numen light. Nerves made shaky. Streets darkened phantoms.
Sporting Gucci glasses—if to see clearer. I was rinsed, still filthy, too many
rooms; neural excellence, synaptic fury, at a mirror just gazing; Sprite with
gin, troubled, moving pieces, life becomes a puzzle, or jigsaw dreams, trying
to reread a lasting vision. Too many dying, it can’t be the plan, too many
wrinkled decisions. So marooned, listening to soul, so steep the eyes water—loving
you, hating circumstances, so far, we have destiny. Fuchsia brooms, oils
wafting scents, polished tables—feathers fixated, too frank to be felt—longing into
the breeze, business held sacred, mother leaking into spirit: same eyes, coarse
crops, inherited cotton. Those spoken words, dripping from abandoned lips, at
my justice, at my memory, seeing something with leniency; if living means
hurting, and hurting means living deaths, wisdom must be a sullen party. Rebaptized,
flipping in words, someone must interpret—else, it comes across the wrongness—watching
a spirit-car, riding a ship-wave, at epitome and islands; like ghosts,
tiptoeing, coming back to my mirror … rolling inside, sitting in stillness, so
many ingredients for gumbo; a chair for me, a suit for you, a day lost, with
returning seeming regular. Denim emotions, falling with unspoken screams,
silent with terrors, observed for rivers—those teary eyes, those with courage,
indicting feelings, interrogating notions, finding humanity guilty of love.
