she was irked over prose—the
caption of other women, i mentioned her lovers. like some mocking confession,
like some impossible dream, to hear it is baffling. such decision to drift into
time. such privilege to deny facts—such grace when others hear life. it must be
wilderness, woodland areas, the mathematics we fail to compute. i believe we
want too much, pushing for excellence, forgetting humans are unsatisfied. such
gray skies. a sunny day. most will love during grace, during luxury, during
miracles. to have come to combat, unprepared for earth, snails teaching
mechanics; the building of a legacy, spaces unheard, algorithms unmatched. soft
silent uneasiness, swarming inside, to imagine ancient activities. i imagine a napkin floating in the
winds—by circular upheaval, by distance and closeness. like patience perfects
its entrée. like arms reaching forever. like so exposed, no one can get
nourishment. fleeing into twilight, a sprite spirit, allergic to what we call
normal.
i have interrogated self, in honor
of a stranger, in dreams, we sit with care. lost in confusion, enduring my
tragedy, wondering if others will show grace.
