Into flight, crisp lakes, flowing light; to have died to return, intimate dynasty, an echoing transgression; beauty made ethereal, clutching agony, in its sin—it grants redemption. A soul to
indifference, tugged by interior, to collapse, gripping midsection, abandoned to shivers. In chasing those blues, defined by upholstery, too much to overpower—life in its cure, culture in its bone, celebration in its suffering—fields filled with oxen, shoes as witness in bartering, such suffusion
of dreams; a casualness to penance, some familiar glint, certain rites, séance dwelling in its sanctum. (To picture a soul indebted to holiness, ever accustomed to flight, innocent fervor, we assert, a creature of allure, fevered by concentrated faith, ascending on high, doctor of one’s spirit.
So intense by insulation, to have loved whilst dying, to have died whilst living; in purity of purgation, sweating belief, pouring into chant, agitated for an unknowable reason: driven forward. In tumbling through visions, in rendered visitation, to capture feelings, fierce emotions—flying,
transported, as if by dreads: spirit of suffering, suffering of bliss, treasured beatitudes, if to reach in passing a shoulder. By transfixing; by zeal. To ask about anomaly; to assert something is unsavory. A soul to its needs. A human to her sanctum. In all of its dying, it’s living
