We don’t speak about love; we speak about life.
We don’t claim immortality; we live as if.
I need to speak about love; I need to adore without reluctance.
Cultural curses; blizzard bolts.
If I could unveil love, so close to it, closer to a collar.
Desert religiosity, no one but Father.
Nearing a cave, an echo, a petroglyph—my picture.
Over seven perfections; over seven reasons; at an inner masquerade … to the grave with life.
Palming sawgrass, eating seas, conversing over a frittata.
Weaned off love, addicted to love, forced to face the greatest chasm over love.
Many untoward thoughts; aching
sandstone eyes.
Skyward melodica—woodwinds—harmonica pains.
So intense by fatigue, a day to shivering, a night to Aquila.
So saturnine; a whole heart. A lost dream.
I tried not to speak it, by windy falls; so confused about it, like city moments, cultural deserts.
A colossal downpouring, a miserable windfall—
to have lived in an instance, steady in chase
of that feeling.
It sounds like affliction, the tender side of darkness …
wealth of terrors, dusty ambition, driven by one ghost.
With helium hearts, to have said much, souls beyond facts, unenthused by customs.
