Swanic Valentine

Greet souls, my Love: Spin galaxies: While indebted to mysteries…our Chinese Wisdom, our stippled garments, our turquoise Impalas{…}as dreamy minions, or cagey leopards, this feeling killing his guts: our gravel intestines, this wife pleading, our men too callous—as afraid to wither, while cautious by deaths, our addict grandparents: those lethal generations, this mystic influence, our frontier Olympics{…}wherefore, this grizzle bleeding, this brain screaming, while listening to Hathaway.     (I died in [Us], unto laughing gleefully, at tears those years to blenders: our hardened souls, our uneasy differences, our butterfly adventures: our distinct temperaments, as chased for running marathons, at wonders concerning dis-orders: our parent sensations, our deep influential(s), this mathematical spacecraft—as dripping into feelings, born with Al Green, at so much love: as if we live, climbing chimes, and whispering to fireflies: this net and tent, this cougar lurking, our dreams as simultaneous: at every turn, to meet in visions, to cry with richness: our forefathers at sins, this death in souls, as hating what we cleave to—this white soul, that mahogany flesh, our greatest parents churning: our mother’s legacies, this infant compassion, this torpedoed anger{…}as men drift, clutched about ribs, slithering for sliding to God: that mental friend, this torn envy, our jealousies clamped to brains{…}if but his life, combined with yours, to gather a fist full of promises: this man to words, this grave calling, our promises as but a few: where love is gentle, as love is selfish, while needing with breath this steep gentility).     I sought mercies, fiddling with humans, as mercy comes with humiliation: this oily concrete, our slippery falls, this cloudy brook—as up-side-down, afloat our skies, while listening to blues: our intimate seconds, our thoughts by Eternity, our reasoning(s) for mishaps: our velvet roses, that opaque gesture, those years as sensed with silence: this woman craning, this anchor waning, our deaths becoming our pillars.     It lives in flesh, this correlation, our achy revelations: to reach perfection, our mental alleys, as fraught with trash-bins: this truck entering, our gates resistant, where angels appear that Light: those awesome creatures, those miracle yogis, this soul with mystic-bias.     I know little your paths, while knowing more those hurdles, theretofore, this carrying caravan: our heavy mantels, those tormented growths, this space separating adolescence from adult-splinters: our Buddhist Ways, this craved insanity, our humble spears—insofar, a nightmare, as asked to redeem, where resentments build into travesties: those bold sayings, our crying nieces, our hurricane emotions: at years for comforts, at tears for pains, at rivers planting our lotus: this fine thread, our tendons to soil, our seashore Witness.     I met an island, so naïve with feelings, a bit sensitive to lights: this small frame, attempting to vet sanity, while cautious concerning secrets: this perfect family, our perfect souls, our perfect images: indeed, to wither, out cats to litter, our poodles coughing{…}as strikes his heart, our learning left behind, our days to television.     I resurrect; as but a thief; this man to dreams: as, notwithstanding, this infant swan, yearning for adulthood;—or tears be-gone, this inner person, those intentional thoughts: this symbol aflame, this crane tugging, our aches abated—if but a dream, I’ll meet Us there, laughing and hiding—our cycle with roses.