It’s ever what I meant, or currency of a nightmare,
splayed, seeking closure. It’s never what I meant, or poetry went astray, a strange
land of doves.
Poesy in July, heaving guts, wheezing at the funeral.
It was God’s Rules, faceless by winds, teal-blue sparrows.
In loving it was darkness. In hating it was self-sabotage.
A little is too much; a fair amount seems like
torture.
In dear time, waving through clouds, it requires a few
raspberries.
So small it seemed, it became existence, each bone reverberating. To know with each image, sheer
determination, destroyed insides, smiling, feeling acidic.
To see it open, to kill it each time, it’s life a new
avenue … valleys born, countryside havens, like noose to throats.
It was out of anger, & one suffered greatly; it
was hard to feel charity.
It becomes its vagueness—its shallow depth, with
caskets floating.
It becomes its existence, purely existential, trapeze
& wire.
To feel certain pride, to destroy everything, smug
& arrogant.
Picture begging, a child weaving, to learn of disappointment.
Picture praying, learning a deep truth, God doesn’t
always answer.
In despising her, I’d ache her, with deeper agonies—voice
of song rites, or your psyche, an esoteric sin;
blessed to have abuse, knowing in summer, bled &
desperate; asking of holiness, cursed of perception, trying to break freedom—
the pain in those lines, sheer misunderstanding, years
dying too young to become normal—whatever it might gather.
