“Show me, don’t tell me.” Of all haunting words, these churn. I was with a feeling, it spoke of dreams, it cried of age—of all creatures, of visions through marrow, of ghosts as thoughts, sweet nectar, vinegar-based lies. As it might open itself; as it might close itself—based in cleaving—so decorated, fantasizing over chills; forever a feeling, forever out of reach, it pays to be a little nonchalant. Amazingly, something is not true because I will it to be. And loving tides, corralled skies, one poignant convergence—those soft brown binoculars. “Tell us of experience.” Can’t win for losing. She dances in turquoise, filled with promise. She teaches discourse, flamed about the Great Debate. She loves impartially, favoring the disobedient. Of all her woes, she wrestles over losing time … each soul affixed to chaos, formed by excellence, winnowed in fields, tiptoeing through sugarcane.
