The senses die. They become hebetated. I would dance afore you, laughing off grayness, feuding with glee. The pain is a river; the happiness is a shadow. (What haven’t we given?) A soul with a focus, trying to outwit solutions – they seem to outwit us. So simple it appeared. Militant faith.
Dedicated to protecting faith. Filled with feathers, electric like lights, a bulb flickering as a sign. The passion would soar, sparrows would signal, a new psalm was recited. If to adore again, like a young lad, free of despair, free of doubts; most miserable, most elated, tugged in direction—a
slave to memories. Such wild pleasures, such cherry blossoms, to pause and rewind a cassette tape. Thrown into pressures. Winnowed and released. A cryptic creature, love appears in foresight, unhinged, such instincts—asked for destiny. I would try to keep captures; demon-eyed,
submitting to faith: Love is a rebel. To stand accused: NY to California; Jerusalem to Africa. Losing pieces. Gaining clarity. Coyote to foxes, serpents to angels. If off the grid, I was made this light, fault the family. Those months watching you, the torment of admiration—such heart
motion, so close to what it feels like, so determined not to leave. I would chance the fury, becoming intimate, with hell unleashed.
