To bury the burnished flame—weaving the high
tides—creeping into crescendo; asserting opposites, looking to swim, the best
part of our days. I was a child musing symbols, born with glasses, elevating
levels; the fierce flicker of her aura—the depression of light, the fire of the
actuality; to make maintenance in pressures, to love in measures, if to swear
against sentimentality. Some flavor haunting its exclamation; some need to
exhale; each declaration coming back to challenge its voice.
An Oreo with milk; or Salome with wines; to have
adored simplicity with majesty. Dialogue, serene mysticism, the heart as a
place of wreckage, and repair.
Like twins fretting the glory—changed in absence,
discussing the future—to have loved her art, to become romance, cleaving to
science and prose;
if to sense the fever, as it erupts softly, sure
passion, certain magnitude.
