Like a whisper through a crowd. Like lightbulbs
and fireflies. Like living spent on
religion. A scenic or cynic
ventriloquist—a dream on steroids—a
feeling without explanation. Turning
pages, reminiscing, family had
identity, roses, a zinnia
in a mailbox. I’d like a hand at it
—the being of it, close enough to hurt
each other—mere words, a playing doll, a
praying sky, like memories with you there.
To know you is to know a ghost and love
seems unsteady an answer—those
emotions, traveling into a
mind-cave, like too thick to dissect and
slicing music: western orchestras,
northern violins, the maestro is pagan;
if to sing a scream, so southern those
feelings, so eastern the voice, with tales talked
about giants: an inner science,
falsifiable, testable, something
repeated ere an audience. We dare
ignore it. We dare prepare it. To
imagine each belief verified, made
authentic: only a crazed fret, clouds as
evidence, thick gray cirrus,
signifying rain: at deeper darkness,
a black box, I saw signs, I felt dolls, I
pricked at it with pins. So much a young soul,
to imagine energies, wandering
each need in deeper regions.
