Life is never enough, soot & chimneys, dirt & remorse—to happen upon crucifixion, weighed by woes, refrained in joys. California, a different type of sin, wells of indifference, alienation, gins & portals.
With embarrassment—terrific pains, shame & chains, desperate at points, if to feel admired in those regions;
deep abuses, framed in another’s eyes, to picture another’s experience—it mustn’t be horrific, but a little pain might lend to weathers.
Life seems too difficult to meet her, too much terror to avoid her, wrapped in her, listening to innuendoes: filled with passions, unrelenting choices, pulled with sway, with tides, falling into sandcastles.
If to locate her—if to feel French, such naivety in each poet—it keeps flickering flames.
Fireflies at a flashlight. Kites in deep turquoise. A kiss upon a swing.
So much the fever. So grand the delight. With rumors suggesting one loves life.
