I plucked a gallica, drifting like dogwood, murmuring
under my breath; so seismic at points, like distance consecrated, like math for
the first time. I sail upon motion, looking at reflection, out of laughs,
courting a disastrous fable—those with silence, so pure in pains, wandering
about channels. I stumble into you, as a probing galaxy, extended, usual anxieties;
a mélange of problems, so much science, hurting for hurt, traipsing rafts, at a
canyon inside. It seems different for you, wandering channels, needing sincerity,
divine light, things most write away. I remember asking about abstracts,
fiddling my brains, years will put existence between us; many spasms, rotten
away, like tomorrow has different chalices. By pinions, so incomplete, like
faced by moral excellence—to take in account, arms swimming, so much accrued in
one breath.
