With wild vines comes wilder grapes. I move to your pace, dealing with fiction, as it becomes facts. Sorrowing dragons, motion snakes, curious slaughters; to have a process, to determine a ghost, to have loathed one’s self; by anxiety and angst—by resisting what persists. A Taoist approach, to lean into motion, to unfold patience. A whole life in damages, to live without a conscience, if ever it were possible. Such raining cries; such southern obedience; aside an aching scientific. I was rethinking you—hoping—it gets reasonable. To see with perspective, accursed by darkness, it’s a contradiction. With raging winds, pushed and torn, so asunder into weather—those eyes will mourn once more. I thought about your husband—such compromise, to need to live a certain way; cherries with vodka, raspberries with gin, or nothing, sitting, maybe brooding. To have adored feeling; to fall in passion with dreams; or to walk away from self, made ascetic, looking at it all pass by. (I do admit it gets to a point, where one debates over determination. Presence shows for absence.) In the decision to give life to it, to need a certain essence, by style and grace, to intoxicate senses; made in part most uneasy, made in determination to open further, with life and days seeming unconscious at points.
