Say you would if time permitted the purple moon. Every
thought makes love to satisfaction. Anatomy prose, leaving was with pains, art
breeding, skeptic the horizon. Portuguese exotic, a man desires what he never
has—honeyguide feathers; hating what she adores, loving what destroys, like a
curse God renders; ebbing, shoreline illusions, baffled, deeper love, to
promise a child unbeknownst to the ember; wallowing in transparency, afraid many
ghosts are upon us, to adore in chalice, design, pleasures—so bent the winds
are mourning. Kenya eyes, Jerusalem hips, African breasts—to let go, to ask for
mercy, to bleed Jesus! Topi birds, songs favored, to announce Yahweh’s name—blood
marooned, an island with fever, coming so close to forfeiting—majesty of its
trance, feeling goodness, too few hallucinations.
