We box in frustration until we crack. Love spins webs like spiderwoman. We stir like fire looking for love. We season skies and water earth, sweet soil in clouds. A tree right there, in the middle of nothingness. It used to be so easy in its drilling, it has become like a mirror in hell. One will say, “We decide to be sad.” I’d say, it hasn’t hurt yet. (We play blues, worship B.B. King, drink Brandy on rocks, speak like primitive folks, eat ham hocks with rice, argue over recipes, die softly, and enjoy each other’s company.) I keep rereading souls the flame as it begs to be devoured. Our lonely aches in full crowds. We never perish as we do come realization. Seven days and it was with the sabbath. We hear it inside. It comes with years. It was once easier. We commandeered religion, hid in woods, made crosses from coppice symbols—man of a dozen dreams, a thousand aches the fury of its Passion. If worship is wrong—we harass science, some element hast to measure justice. Still in parts, pieces lost—those scars they made Jesus. A doubting disciple the grave made a foolish entity, the sting snatched; let goodness endure! Something against me; to imagine a dearth of laughter, a belly of thunder, so seasoned for realization, so divested of pure clarity. I noticed a countenance claiming certainty, sunk into itself, feigning gentility, the saddest elixir.
