Getting into a space, neither saintly nor wicked, more
observant.
I miss hearing her, to relinquish control, to become a
piece of existence.
I was infatuated with God’s daughter, it was precious.
Years would pass, interior centipedes, multiple
dimensions.
To rethink insistence, to give all as discourse, bled
to resurrect.
Every experience, recorded in space, life becomes a
phantasm.
It never meant much—it meant every life, astronomy,
angelica, most painful to endure you.
It will never as its understood
—it never has taste; it murmurs, it’s angry as hell.
Octopus memories, Kierkegaard faith, Woolf eloquence.
Such trepidation, listening to souls, by arc, by
wilderness. To die in you, to come back in you, to manage
personality in you.
and another might read me, to seed me, with intention
to deceive me.
at wonder, to imagine souls, with never an intension
to breathe together.
