It puzzles me to see frustration, not as it permits itself, rather, in kind eyes. I know those carnivals. I’ve spoken to those harlequins. Such mockery; such rumination. And I’d never, nay, I’d trespass neatly, unforgiven of myself. I’ll let skies watch as we neglect time. I’ll palm violets, self-accused. I’ll pitch pennies at a local pond, gazing at swans hydroplaning. O for wilder days. So much participation in negation: souls to their fruits, berries, cashews and almonds. So tender an apparatus, so great an earthquake, a soul to himself, parts deteriorating, climbing into invisibility—one streetcar, three reasons, introduced to a treasure’s tribunal. I don’t suspect it passes you by, so intent on invisibility, barebones, right? Such a predicament, explosive bulbs, cosmic pains, allergic insensitivity. It puzzles me how we’ll never speak it, watching as we do, expecting clairvoyance. I wonder what works. So enwoven to freesias, listening to inner freshets. It was always cultic attraction, it never changed. Beweeping subconsciously, just enough to remain sentient. Many knotted skies, treacherous innocence, to hate when one sees us—needing eloquence, sensing opportunity. To unfasten thunder, to hit seaquakes, to be in essence, a keen creature, a wounded miracle.
