You speak by waves—interior sparks, or you remain
silent. You hold it against me—not of identity, or understanding, mainly, of
disposition; each crux, each cave, if God understood, we keep looking at Job,
and water is whispering. You were made holy, like a box, notes in an oaken
vessel, meaning barrowed. You partly hate it, a name as a curse, to go against
everything in its intention. I was foolish, trying at poetics, to imagine a
soul needs to feel human, as opposed to holy. You hold it against me, and
others say, “Let it go,” but you see some element, so dream, an inner whisper.
I was with distance, angry at sky-substance, yielding to arts, titles, and
jaded. You adore poetry. You write like beauty. You face weather. I ache in
you, distant from you, it’s esoteria. To have loved some image, to have hated
some inclination, to try at balance, with screams inside. Looking at signs.
Never free. Asking forgiveness, then separation; knowing, if meant for badness,
it might churn into goodness. You’ve cataclysm. You’ve legacy. It might distress.
It might cleanse. It might be more presence in its disappearance. I hold you
near, I push you afar, I’m confused about some psychic power.
