I intrude often, washing dingy denims, laughing over
nonsense. I worship carefully—seeing faces, phantoms, illusions, remembering her
name. I was sicker in tales, pursuing courtship, one too content to whisper—acacia
snow, excellent misconduct, ducks headed into seas—most filthy terrain, slanted
prose, helpless addiction: tambourine petals, trombone insistence, cacti pains—to
have adored, in an instant, unreasonable pash; an infatuated forever, weather
made bane, assailed in soul, making harmony. If I were a friend, running
through darkness, would she fight for me? Too many potholes, too much false
luxury, many living in a ten-minute space. Slovakia mysticism; jackals on
liquor; a crest of stars—to have amore of America, to hate differences, fueled
by agreements; a prehistoric instinct, warring primitive attraction, seated in
fantasies.
