that type of music, unique acoustics. A dream on its last leg: the way it alters a wave. So many years wasted. Intimacy made impersonal. I sense each bat, as it suckles. Spinning by degrees. It was so clever. Full of hubris. It was easy, thwart by too much thinking. Each to galloping, at the foot of seas, early evening pasta with tomatoes.
In unfeeling what makes a poet. It was glorious in our eyes. Years to come to this space, aging, a certain maturity to it.
It wasn’t what we suspected. It refused to be forgotten. I imagine private discussion; those with assertions. The fiat is souls shall fly. It’s been some time between facts: incipient love, marooning eyes, cyan ink.
It’s a vision killing him. An unopened sky. That type of music.
If rising wasn’t drastic; if rain wasn’t scarce … one final dream, such interruption, a man harasses himself. He digs his grave. When he desires liberty, he’s met by karma.
By a great polemic; while Love is most astute: the poet must travel alone, all gadgets forsook. With a miracle sprouting stems, they connect, such tragic understanding.
