We
fiddle algae, poking at starfish, at sudden to awaken: this land as dark; this
daughter as genius; our ghosts as shifting through trespass—at orders those
eyes, such rich deception, at honors that broken river; to shiver chaos, a mile
but justice, an ocean but dry; to have such thoughts, a miracle afore souls,
while to touch it plainly: this cryptic device, as pushed by rooms, at taints
by comforts: if only that mastery, this inner nightcall, this esoteric
religion—pillaged under-siege, captured by breaths—that feral dream, to awaken
thrice, at love this planet by distance. We fettle souls, at flames our
detriments—those examples forging monsters—at sudden to sigh, peering at our
hands, this wake of our doings—as died those sands, as every grain—screaming of
resurrection—to pause by glance, as turning for churning, at large his very
pulse; where eyes would perish, this cherished affection, while Love whittles
an angel’s tome: that inner cry—bleeding airwaves, at curses this birth of
textures; to exhaust memories, our chimneys bleached, this radiant blackness;
as soot was fused, while smoke was wizardry—this rapture as birthing unicorns:
if time is gentle, our souls shall not die—as conscious again at unawares—this
cycle of ghosts, that rich intuition—our sisters as nuns fleeing through oaken
valleys. Oh immortal skies, as first descending, if but our Mary—as cleaving to
signs, that arrangement of symbols, this sun years at studies: if but that
gift, as recording that soul, if but this kiss to implant that soul: that
rising chi; our furious joys; this shattered lagoon—as parted our brains, these
meadows of hemispheres, striking at matches aflame our fireworks; to sing such
justice, this pleated reality, our feats as temporary triumphs: this cycle of
turns; this inner Goth; our minds to shelters through wars—this core
excitement, as fevered in chimes, our songs streaming through particles: if but
that night, infused with kindness—as opposed to opportunity—our souls angled
for terrors, as far reaching as that second. It may be mystic, this center of
experience, our woes by arts our dreams: as shifting our furnace, to dance our
brains, at sparks this lute’s effusion.
