I look on skies, kick at grass,
reposition critical presumptions. Life has been ready—for elasticity,
fortitude, form, and motion. I was a wish to a soul, a hassle to a spirit, a
dove to an omen; many are winds, afloat on highs, with scores of beehives. The chameleon
has wings, an animal’s body, a human’s head—at crucial points, I have adored
images, idolatries, kneeling in dirt, washing my spirit. One becomes omniscience,
fibbing as we do, with super insights and ghosts attending tribunals. Most amazing
grace, to have outlived a bout, if to plead beyond scope: hoping in you,
remembering your name, wondering if we’ll meet again. I was a wish to a soul, a
problem to motion, caught between spheres: needing something with measure;
gathering parts of imperceptibility; rummaging old emotions. Waiting on
something not moving—a little concerned, going through immediacies, befuddled
by repetition and service.
