when sunny those nights, when colorful sweet darkness,
when holy & fretting dolor—to have life, in dear complexity, wishing it
could be written … if to possess essence, a dream in a vision, a pearl in a
diamond, such comforts—asking—how are they located?
some seem destined for uneasiness—others seem fretted
by luxuries—either/or, to come to a space, confronted by interior, intestinal
mirrors, greatest of tragic sins.
it might determine as it does. she might be in there,
part of psychology, as one put it—there’re many worlds inside.
upon seeing her, some gaze, deeper than a glance, her
eyes low, aware, without a turn of affects—it was reasonable.
in rumor it tells, a pillar of community, a celloist
with spirit, a silent compulsion, giving to exist.
in core person, a need for others, as others need her;
art in charity, pain in resistance, aesthetic in assistance. said to give
excellence, to need nothing, in truth, beauty in countenance, flame in aura,
watching, un-thrilled upon its surface. to remain silent. an intense pause. nothing
awkward.
motion in its tides, those hearts like oceans, a
flower as a whisper—
to say something with nuance, sudden into it—to have
said it too much.
nothing about it is compelling, as we often fib;
nothing to it will flourish, it becomes normal, just different souls, as we
often fib; nothing in us, just psychical presence, to become consciousness, at
level, soaring into a picture.
in not writing it—something was written. too sleepy at
times, not as in rest, as in preoccupation—ignoring a tale, seeing but unseen,
or seen but unseeing—concentrated on interior, moved by motion, to realize a
kindred soul.
