the softer
horizon, with glossy eyes, moving through ourselves. we might desire truth,
afraid of her, hidden somewhere … not few are looking, ever to find wealth, somewhere
they can’t take our pain. I include you. you might disagree. condition is
unawareness. maybe a colder soul, born of ice trays, rich in mental skills,
maybe filled with prowess, strewing wilderness, like life is a parable. maybe a
talisman locket, grandmother’s ache, grandfather’s magic. maybe freedom is
real, an inheritance, despite, color, anguish, maybe it doesn’t afflict you.
you’ve never been a zealot, poetry is mawkish, there’s not much to unsay.
travail is natural, intelligence is superficial, intuition is like saying, “God.”
not much for impulsivity. met a person, married that person, had kids (it’s
natural). wouldn’t be a journalist, too much conjuring; not interested in that
anchor, too much conjuring; fogginess means, let it go; cloudberries, maybe a
glass, steep in sternness—free to assert what’s natural. many are shocked, you
should be religious, the belt is too much conjuring. not much for
tourists. not keen on sad songs. we must measure what we put in. nothing is
surreal. science hasn’t the picture. fancy seems dangerous. one spouse. one
mind. one law. I want to assert
something, like easiness is mauling you; it isn’t that at all.
