We
haven’t spoken, surfing through brackets, afraid to face the trauma. I write to
include you, such a woman, burdened by trauma; but it couldn’t be, the sizzle
of pain, to obscure the fevers; and yet it is, this muddy water, the treasure
of our wrong-doing. Was it me; or was it us; to bleed the pale grass? I ask—asearch
for right-doing, grieving on a doorsill. There’s a birdsong, a nugget on a
diamond, howling our agony; where truth is mangled, to want for nothing, aside
for sheer address. I feel for placeless, the robe of shame, this tongue of
embarrassments; and know the light, to shine in brilliance, striving through
this night-rising. It’s photogenic, this merchant’s ache, racing for a finish
line; but oh the miles, to capture paradise, to sort through debris; where eyes
watch, to count the measures, and even perchance—a grandmother. We were never
honest, where vultures spy, even a rasp to souls; but cry not the winds, to
weigh the balance, a festoon of miseries, a garland of joys; where confusion
bleeds, the kernel’s web, looking to outfox proprieties; but soon be life, a
freshet of studded jewels, to rest upon a swan. Is it mere hate, to cloud the
stars, as sacral as tottering? I feel it is—this grand distraction, to utter obscenities;
but this is pain—and ever to watch, as numb as television; so more an opus, to
chorus deliverance, afire at the tribunal. We must ensoul, the clearest path,
else to perish this omen’s math; for love is pure, and free of deceits, else to
perish this omen’s math; and I want for nothing, aside for thought, to embrace
a grand afflatus; so more to wishes, to know for nothing, aside for this
calamity; where pain is collars, and fables are brooches, to accustom the beast
of debts.
