The line is thin, existing between
spheres, conversing with walls; hills fraught by ants, sociality screaming
affection, indifference, frightened to succeed. Knitting you is easy—pictographs
flickering, eating kettle corn; knowing you is fire, inside moving, such tender
strangers. The line is thin, hard to walk away from, most intrusive atmosphere.
Oh Delicate Arc, stories in sequence, enough to have loved sincerity. Most
defeated by circumstance, most a giant in essence, to become humbled by aging.
Oh Athletic Hearts, piercing regions, galaxies, combing grass, suffused with
numen. The line is thin, existing in souls, tugged by cosmic fervor. Crocheting
cities, argued as winning, with many scars beneath the surface. To know it will
never occur, with it ever present, torn asunder in design. Life will stay with
us, begging internally—for existence, love, pain, fraught by the improbable.
