Class was in session. An innuendo was dropped. Most dreams
are thought out. Most ironic to assert—and loving you was made easy, for a
shared soul. He adores what he can’t master. It hurts to love you. You die in
loving by return. Religious rites, golden eyes, nothing matters aside family. A
neat pedicure. A glacial manicure. Pruning the garden on Sunday morning. I was
musing upon brilliance, laughing without notice, walking pastures inside; by
darker skies, dusky rivers, smoldering prayers, suffocation, eyes opened. Sold fear,
in exchange for balance, never considered our magazines, our books, our
participation; accumulation of stars, fractured wings, to amass density. But class
was in session, those eyes spoke uncalm calmness, contradiction, a hand in its
thrills, a note in its motion, forces typing with us, like spirits in the good
book. But class was in session. It seemed so indelicate. Like a table, with a
therapist, and others can’t move, can’t chance the winds, to speak a whisper,
to gaze upon a smile, to laugh, to sense a ghost. Indeed, class was in session,
men grew nervous, tugged like springs, reverberating into sunshine, proud to
adore, with worries showered by affection, not much more to presume.
