By fear of intimacy, the lake is
turning, swans are hydroplaning.
Close enough to churn away, with
knots knocking beneath flesh, with interior grieving.
Each page has tear markings, greasy
fingerprints, chocolate smudges and invisible dreams.
The song is orange, walking by,
standing accused—
an absence in us, suffocated by family,
never met such holiness.
A rose grew between a crevice
surrounded by concrete; oh unhealthy outlooks, seated between intervals,
veiled, vacuuming curtains.
Sullen music. A dark, gleeful second,
a solace smile, nearing the backgammon years.
To have adored, too unkempt, deciding
on behaviors—to insist upon treachery, to never try, too many tales.
Let days be brevity, sheer joy,
forever orgasmic, an origami feast, clowns subdued, magicians made sober—
dice and winds, storms and
appeasements—
sold to arts, knitting love, confused
on intimacy—
lakes settling, maturity growing,
loving has been acceptance, guidance, comforts.
