I do more imagining than soul might permit. I intuit
more than I analyze. Living by sin, trespassing sin, transgressing against sin.
To have loved in thought, to have felt every prose, with nothing in a dungeon
to call home. To have touched, loved, dared freedom, and hung from a spirit
tree. Most fixated … only a moment … prurient omen, salacious covers, so afraid
of affection; gregarious and tender, provocative and hurt, or, never to have
life—those pages making maturity—seducing mere souls. I do more to avoid a
thought, while it pops into intermission, adoring what Prince would see. I make
penalties, I soak up miseries, I become prose and panic and privilege. Aesthetic
angst. Treasure and more sin. To have noticed one in her prime—the fever of the
flame the favor of the fire. So simple it churns, so rich it hurts, so sad we
measure into a bottle.
