I try to hear the voice, one last dungeon, a lie told
in honor; celebrating nonsense, contrary to instincts, cultures trespassed,
devastation, toxic forgiveness—again to perish, different pictures, bleeding
sobriety, flowing into a deeper pain—many flowers, more anxiety, like framed in
a big joke. I wonder about humors, hours in entertainment, alone, begging a
memory—so affected, over a fox, made in snakes, astrology seeming pertinent;
much pain, laughing with culture, the way we share what we desire—a colder
need, splayed in pride, aching, private warfare. It had to make sense. It had
to be right. A person controlling irony—a future built, years tumbling,
tumbleweeds, sea grass, begging some mirror.
