I’ve little more understanding, cupping soil, letting time heal, as it wills. Convenient mercy, fretting the good mourning, afraid dying is viral. I’ve known excellence, in a sinning moment, most repenting perception, the badness, internalized. Love requires openness, melting glaciers, unclutching the rain. I’ve admitted folly—struggling to redeem my face, asking for what humans can’t give: utter clarity, cleansing of souls, memories altered, etched, erased. When tides ebb, and skies are gray, I surrender my appetite; sore serenity in sin, to have glory in its trial, with so much between deaths—those dreary eyes, a fret in pains, to giggle at naturality—those harping souls, those headless ghosts, sweating, smoldering, desert affections, desert love. To have completion, in a given second, to watch it pass on by. Debating you shouldn’t be rule. Loving you should be stars. Upon a gallica, in a dream, to possess some part as it escapes. I’d adore if it meant eternity, void of sights, only indebted to passions—living as it dies, cursed as it lives, aligned in sunrise. To see hills, halcyon mountains, deer leaping, coyotes watching; all by a feeling, nothing forfeited, life arranged to proceed.
