With given a lasting voice, dying to live, gathering berries, flooding winepresses. Once to feel it, gates to conceal it, threshed or winnowed—core warring, needing family. So many elements against us, we must have something to give. It went from temperamental to intermediate to eternal. Kindness fought the fight, incurred damages, like a spine of needles. The lasting bets, poolhall karma, so many afflicted by rites. Loving was hard. One whisper; one kiss. If a claim is impossible—no one will believe it. Such topical exaggeration; we might entertain it. Just something to it. With given a lasting voice, dying to live, gathering wounds, flooding God’s ear. It goes ballistic. Such bombastic cries. If one knew—I bet one would say something. Ghana skies—trying to enjoy November, paid a price, intimate with loss. Once to feel it, unknit a little, trying to locate substance, something to grip to, traveling atmosphere. And it meant so much, to become so minimum—a jet mentality, a jutted ambition, the few of the last ghosts; rolling dice, each day, trying to define sanity—its demarcations, its body, what in hell does it mean? One might giggle, once it comes, same wrestling, same activity. Only if it all meant nothing. Only if one could walkaway from it. Like a big joke—until one is in a den, knees bent, wailing in silence. Groping walls, squinting at gnats, a long day, a wrong greeting, it changes the dynamics forever.
