We might look back on life and feel younger. However, maybe it’d make for charms. Too much wrongness. Celebration or wretched silence. Such wrenching beauty, terrific alienation. We’re seeing souls, feelers palming America; too much to understand, such devastation. I’m miles into a
fancy; knowing parts vanish, a spirit is in limbo, it feels kept—by frantic composure, given to penance, more to perdition, claiming its happiness, nay, demanding its joys. I think about you. I get uneven inside. Where I ask, has life landed us? It seems tragic beauty, relaxed nervousness,
couth uneasiness. (Leave it to soaring, a gift in some, proud to be participants, such language.) Those with deep bass—they come and drum up skies—I say, it seems vulnerable. And Love has titles, carrying each crown, rising in essence, livid ether, casual screaming. I was washing spirit
and came across mire. I was washing mire and came across an emerald. I think of such as a diamond, marquise cut, languishing with pride, content to suffer for justice, such a rabid heart. I hear your silence, pure imagination, in crossing galaxies, by inner vehicle, minds and hearts,
holding certain facts. Somewhere in between universes, trying to chuckle it off, knowing how to strike harmony, threshed by humanity, in sync with indelibility. Last of a page, scribbling in margins, seeing how words make sentences.
