To drop a key, to play skies, to imagine one loves you. As sung, to discover, one does not adore you. The mountain as witness. A curse as inverted; to ends, to lights, slung into orbit. It makes no sense. I must include you: the pain is a faucet, the woman is a dream, and we shall never touch eyes. Another faces feelings, a determined winner, quite taken by Sexton, so far into emotion. Another, it aches in heart, to know she sits through it. While self has become part numb, as feeling existence, words often don’t talk back. You are existence; you deserve the cosmic fret; if to fathom, your desires never cease; if life is to work, it craves honesty; else, this space, time and again. I would adore it, as to live it, to let go in time, to return in chimes. Three steps into passion, born to croak, so much in between, and it’s never enough.
To know you think about it, it’s frightening, I imagine he is having a hard time with it. But more gallicas, upon a daffodil, reading many poets, adrift through prose, imaging it was different then: brighter lights, more Illumination, different sentiments.
