It
needed a voice, to wean a furnace, and I hear you saying:
“Is
it not better?” I qualm, and qualm not, affected fully;
and
such a deficit, a must to fly, enriched for sorrow.
The
air has shifted, flipping through a novel—made of
brains.
He sung to wade—an unsung Tao, streaming through
wu-wei. I scatter grass,
to build for ants, stung sorely.
There’s
parallels
to furnish a chateau, as entrenched as bolts and
screws;
but this is life, to grapple with mirrors, and concave
souls.
We love for symmetry, and frontier joys, to ignore a
background
fray. It was never this color, the winds to
shift,
where a yogi knits a quilt; but more to trauma, a
man
of stages, found stunted, but able to feel. Its paradox,
and
so sublime, carving skies. We
perish
in youth, to flip through pages, traveling through a
rearview.
We meet so few, and measure up so lightly, to
blend
into a mural. I felt it not, for never taught, ever to
feel an infant’s
palm.
