I was a panic for certitude, a foolish man. Love is often by configuration. We’d locate tolerance, form miracles, loosen reigns, such tenderness. So interrupted. Terrible comforts. Asking that you look when you speak. Trips over hills. Picnic baskets. Wines with cheese; berries, plus, apricots.
Upon a flower, to know intentions, sullen by a smile, to burst into frenzy, certain seduction. I was a panic for certitude, a dreaming man. Tell me religion, fall into science, keep us confused. Show me knowhows, wonderous lights, tug at darkened gems; supple arts, flexible meanings, made of joys, subtly saddened, life is complicated; to feel present, albeit afar; to feel like existence spins, forgets to settle in, such running into oblivion. To have adored flaws, to fret resolve, such insufferable comforts.
