The goodness of sincerity, by rain of its curse,
bleeding something supernatural—underneath the underbrush, praying slowly,
trying to electrify—too heavy for clouds, still floating, the mantis preaching,
and long those emotions, dripping into blackdamp, liquified by essence.
Captured by her beauty—so naturalistic, an interior
epiphany, and Love lied, the lie was gorgeous, and we’ve died, laughing in
tears, choking up, face melding into lovemaking.
Many generations, speaking street church, so afraid to
die out;
a miracle to have succeeded, so great the filth,
trying to cleanse the memories. And Love is transgression, the Kingdom in jeopardy,
every soul desires her. And I was lost in feelings, exhausted by emotions,
flirting with perception: needing
her style, at a thought and leap, wondering why part
of life is an audience. Tell it on science, baptize religion, build an edifice,
cleaving to impossibility.
