by a galaxy wheel, symbolic of
existence, figuratively, my life.
aligning lanes, souls needing fuel,
too low on a need to be that way.
never knew how to love, outside of
being selfish, we knew obsession.
in telling a bad story, it stirred jealousy,
usually souls crack—telling those woes;
radiant eyes, incandescent
countenance, rubescent cheeks—these anger souls.
no one knows, nor have they seen,
lakes pouring inside, nor knucklebone day-cares.
no greater hypocrisy than loving
one’s pain—sent to erase one’s miseries;
longing in opposite directions, so
secluded, never both slavery and freedom.
energy was lilting, language was
irregular, upon a gentle star—those cryptic scars.
a slight detour, into rays one can’t
see, so attuned to going with motion; terrible waves
causeless amore, infused with
dreams and visions; so close to dining as invisibility:
alone with celebration, sweet
champaign, snail delicacy—human diamonds.
pure intimacy. pictograph
illusions. noise seems sentimental—ways we’ve died.
