I need to drift, panicked by possession,
at flights those curious souls—as eyes bleeding, this life by boundaries, this
curse a bit too alive. I need to feel,
as one lost, flipping over quicksand: this planet by graves, this promised
paradise, this cordial volt. [I see dreams,
this chaotic soul, peering at insistent beauty: this slave to nights, this
lawyer layered, this cut thrust through rituals: our fantastic grievance—as
chased a magpie, as exploding colors—that tender swan, this last name, our
reigns but coursed to fleeing: that beige light, that mahogany green, or earth
to science our turquoise existence]. It
feels right, this midday mourning, as glad for ruins—those jasper dregs, those
bakery priests, this chemist psych—as days passed, leering into self, to notice
perchance this non-fixture—as a tear alone, or courage’d to persist, while
nervous a lonely crush: this flighty soul, as groveling sediments, bathing in
alligator crevices—to wrestle with granny, this sighted bias, while to imagine
that many may heal. (We search by
wounds, fragile but a vision, at terrible exposure: those gravid rights, as
lost to nights, where perpetrators plead for clemencies). I feel immortal, this mesto existence, too sad for company: to see a swan, laughing at
nothing, a group egging this permanence: our casual cries, this misery
bleeding, this woman watching—as grieved a fool, as enlove a fool, as proud
this excursion by fools: oh to laugh, if but that second, our days to analyzing
our aloof portals: that inner magician, this sphinx called, Time, this remorseful, head-forward,
relentless omen: to capture by glance, but banded a ring, while wrung as nearly
dry: this mystic majesty, this cagey luxury, our nights to mental fens: if but
to perish, this shallow cistern, this wellic
anniversary—where names rove earth, as curses return with interests, as
Precious stares as catching a glimpse; indeed, to lights, as left to life,
while lonely a pleading thought; herewith, are Asians, and Africans, and
European ponds—this leaking atmosphere, this ravishing rain, our sorrows
combing through spiritual mane. [Im
hesitant, to speak that grain, this treacherous feeling: this searching through
mud, if but to ruin existence, this place they adore: our eyes missing—this
lark by nights, settling by invisible nightingales: that curious fever, that
achy island, this coming across as a smidgen zealous—as cried our minutes,
fiddling by seconds, as but to imagine an hour: those cold feelings, as never
to hearts, an unstudied scientist: as must to brains, this chess-sky, this
immortal searching.
