Not enough ink to drown the octopus. Not enough love to efface all doubts. The mind has a design to it, upon a New York winter. I felt worrisome, and Love agreed. Over grapes made sour, vinegar to cleanse the soul—maybe whiskey diamonds, funeral blessings, to have arrived three quarters into prayer. A neat existence; a soul’s craving; eating cantaloupe and listening to Country pain, so artistic; in agonizing those days, to see life returns to itself, sudden into an elixir. The color is pomegranate. A deep type of numbing. To realize love was never the solution. I debate if there is reach there, finished for Summer, captured in some respects—meditating unbeknownst to consciousness, so grave the connection in me, so aloof I stand, occasioned as it were to faint. We might feel it, an oddity of existence, seeking pleasures, silent in winds, crowding our emotions. We might rebuke flesh, made thereof, trying to explain religion, trying to live religion, fraught by uneasiness, acquiring scarred tissues. And I would be remiss to omit a need becoming anguished—rescued, if to return, asking a vine for freedoms, a fig for arts, an orange for juice. Too much to possess. Too lavish to measure. Filled with sorrows, penance as love, passionate by deaths, fretting an intense need for part anguish.
