Like a faint breeze, upon a sunlit whisper, she appears;
depth the deaths, deaf to removal, wine, sadness, and presence.
No quite destination, quiet persistence, enchanted miseries, one expects Father to chance.
Upon an axiom, listening to air, flame of the immortal, agony of the invisible; and I read Glück, sheer mesmerism, passion, veiled sorrows, knowingness of audience.
To desire skies, skiing in vain, so great a course in acceptance.
With seeing schism, evolved in silence, sweet nectar, sour candy, at aches to ignore rumblings.
Ink and dangers. Proud for no exchange. To have loved in tortures, to have given all,
wandering memory lane, afraid one might feel too much. (Many seem content: indecent simplicities).
Lights made sensual; to appear. She hovers. Such sickening redemption.
A pariah to some; a legend come death; deeper meaning is found in sexual contact: it trumps decency.
And art lingers, excitingly banal, desperately trite—breakage of casualties.
While thinking about you, in beauty and brains, to see your life,
such poison, with souls following, just in sights, so great a sullen laughter.
And she appears: namely Sadness;
her cadence is sweet; her anxiety is
meditative; such segue to
depression—to get into marrow,
to agitate bone, deep dark details.
