Sweaty
palms to grip for teal grass. I’m there to speak a
riddle
posing as presence. Was that a nod, to vision his
life,
tore to the grit. We love it in gold bars, a tad bit
sullen,
as distant as women. I listen to soundless, to
utter
for speech. Its words as fruitless as Lysol—to
settle
in silence. I want more, to hear as I see it. Oh this
life,
as cocky as peacocks, surging within. I’m there to
make
known, ever of service, to drift through haunted.
Eager
hopes for shallow ponds. I slow for faith, a flowing
light,
to ponder Mechtild. So for laid back, as mellow as
Chardonnay,
pitching for nerves. We greet in presence,
to
filter for graphs, according to mathematics. Something
for
a freshet, streaming through flowers, to pause a pain.
We
feel it to live it afraid to thirst it. Control is nature,
an
inward knot, an all night organ. We want for peace,
designed
for tears, to pillage a psyche. It’s something gray,
an
unknown force, tugging twofold.
