Tugging at intuition, seeing by darts, surrendering to last seas, captured by first glance; to have lost parts, to have won delusion, asking for freedom; so acute, so precise, what is it? We know when freedoms have departed. What curse it must be; what filth I succumb to; life isn’t what one imagines. Deliberate in a long walk, pausing to pet a kitten, looking eye-to-eye with a stranger.
I wonder at times, when I’ve a second to surrender—those prints, facial recognition, such mystery in a smile.
I was taken by a notion—those tender tomorrows, searching for Love in Paradise, asking Milton a dream, cured I thought in Shakespeare, ruminating over despair in Kierkegaard, so intimate with distaste, so enthralled by hoping whispers, craving as it appears a nonchalant Invisibility.
I see it there at love’s porch, or maybe a perch, so many single tier songbirds.
What I disbelieve in, I insist it does exist—it wasn’t in God’s plans for the poet: the poet is cursed.
