So blasé at segments, deafening joys, imbalanced pains.
I was chasing you until I escaped me.
Church. Work. & taxes. This is cycle.
Pictures are a blur. We have ideas, ideals, self-accusations. Earth, sky, or dungeon.
I spent time trying something as its blain, southern dreams, northern concerns, battled inside.
Loving you was easy: I didn’t know why.
Temperamental souls, burning earlobes, science has answered a great deal: I fathom too much, life comes back to particular feelings, days at thinking—certain phenomena.
Tectonic prayers; oceanic depth; seized by sullen joys.
In taking something—she gave in return. I wonder if we know this: intention is partway fulfilling its curse.
Palms of goosegrass, arms in marshweed, metaphorical blues—jazz so sweet, a night in it.
Nostrils filled with infatuation, just a younger lad, it meant so much to feel it, to dance in it, to lose interior projections. Nothing tangible!
I keep saying words are puzzles. Poets are searching for combinations. If to draw from energies, dialogue becomes cameras.
