It would be strange—the fire of the engine. Tried. Aloft a spell. Courage of the kingdoms. To breathe is slight suffocation, the blood boils, the halls are filled with banshees. So great a thin line: rooting for the best in us. Ask me about scripture, I go vagueness, this is the great arts. If I told you plainly, you’d label me. if I remained ambivalent, you might chase the mystery. (You look like power, neatly moving, encouraged to make motion. Intentional glances.) And the animosity we share, the loathing, the uncured wound. Three parts—to make Jesus. The One is the One, losing nothing, acquiring additions, as all come from the root, here in this space—when was the Sun born? In loving as it aches, rules by glossaries—to promise in affliction, to vow with humanity, the curse of the bold and blue skies. (Into the baseline, feeling tribal, knowing it was hell); like a child hoping upon a miracle, if Jesus might come, it would all be right. I’d never say it, so disappointed, to have learned about reality too early-on. Nevertheless, to hope with Jeremiah, to prophesy with Malachi, lost and never understood. The goodness of a neighbor—to see a child, elders doing Christianity goodness. And love seems an ideal, unrated by itself, cherished and magnified—the cure by faith, the long jeopardy, forever feathering wings.
