When I venture to believe, I’m haunted by humanism. When I adore—I see hurdles. Nothing but everything—to singsong reality; and hell was familiar, with Love re-advertising Songs of Solomon—astrological chaos, suffering refutation … if different of a ghost, if furious by cadence, to have weaved those tales of dynamics. I was hampered and low. I was on cloudberries and casting fiats. It seems it could be … a soul to cosmos; deep complications, complexed spirits, upon new lives—arguing subtle points. I drift upon a poet’s stream. Those radical seconds, to burst into laughter—such courageous beginnings. Fire of its kiln. Furnace of its flame. To put aside the raptures, to sit in vulnerability. I mean nothing by it. In opening a portal, in seeing a soul, in realizing a woman—the fields flushed with sugarcane, the berry patches, the winepresses, such sweet peaches, such tangy apricots. So sacred a day—symbolizing kinetics, so much wisdom, those eyes convicting or redeeming us. I mean little in waxing sentimental. A poet crucifies self—unallowed to sing, so detached, soft tears that never fall. The walls speaking to roses, longing for gallicas, so far in the past eating loquats. I mean to strike motion. I mean to unlock something wounded. Such heavy thoughts; to imagine how one dances, so secure with self, core acrobatics, looking left, selecting righteousness, pulled, nonetheless.
