Not much more to praise, aside for a soul’s
triumph, purgatory with water, a
thought, its epitome, at fire inside
of animals—the fierce memories, trying
to efface a memory, slung into
laundry, a memory at it, spun into
traumas, a thin layer asking questions.
Dreaded seeing it, dying to lie to her, memories
aching through boundaries—the storm blowing winds, those bathing in furies,
another level blowing, breathing, tickling mystic atmosphere.
Each yawn becomes one’s contempt—yelling in silence, a
subtle vibration, a volt, sullen wires. To waste away waiting on time wandering
the necks of wilderness—scorched and sprouting dust, the dusk of dawn—morning
roses, petals inside, angels in floatation—running against
time, laughing a little, remembering good times—born headed that way, arriving
on time, asked to remember the good times.
Trotting ice, asked to thaw out, trying to shed a
century of animosities.
(Like a lost diamond, to find the treasury, reborn
time and again.)
Made happy, in an unhappy state, observation became
life—the neat way we fix pain, assist anguish, washing and buffing the inner
mirror. Not much more to praise.
