A human heart is a thicket city, sprawling
mud and metal buildings mounds praying for understanding rising to the sun’s
arc wanting the commotion to register interconnected in the motion, that this
city pounding in one chest is part of a greater network, a membership of
travelers through, of other engineers sculpting cities out of the soil and sky
feeling as all the better angels of our nature, the little children inside the
pump houses of these adult bodies to desire to play together.
The dawns and dusks undulating with the
calendar of when the bead pelt rain of what an emotion is becomes expected or
allowed to form like dew on the morning grass, warming, evaporating, and collecting
in the risen troposphere. The
precipitation point of reckoning, producing liquid life from one body to
another, the desire to do so, of the situation evolved naturally with the
forethought of being pleased in the hypothetical or reluctant, the volume of
the urge to turn face, run from the emotive.
That romantic notion of fools that guides the universe, of seeing what
or how to dive in the pool without knowing the depth or temperature of the
ocean, but wanting to swim, to attempt to breathe underwater, ceiling as floor,
a light within the trenches worth ascending into the descent.
This is all so new, dynamic in getting to
know a face glowing inside a fiery ring.
How one reacts, how the other, sweet and cautious, reckless, lawless,
decent, modest, graceful, or art in flame is a tapestry just beginning to play
with thimble and thread. I like the
colors we have begun to make, no idea of the cloth, but I can see an outline, a
possibility
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