Language: ENG ELL EPO JBO TLH LAT
This I'd built in me; that we could stand
and know the tides by knowing how we tired,
and you, my dear, my door, were mercury
within my grasp, and you would ground no wrong.
You stroll along --- you were not it at all,
you were no wall, you were no wizard's wind,
and none of you was caught, none apprehended
--- more so when you latched onto my gry suit,
your hair adhering to my dumbstrike palm.
You will not know my songs, my sagging cheeks,
the mind that I'm assembling. It may spin,
but cannot span your fondness of red kittens.
What I had built of crystal sugar strands
and scarce believed in, you bounced baseballs off,
but not before I rolled the bowling ball. It gruggled black,
not making sense, then lumped my windpipe out.
We will not sojourn at the raspy hills this winter,
but stay abed, by neon telephones.
I could recast my words till they swam red,
but they would not be fish to you. The evening
as lavender as your hypnotics,
and proof to three. Then secret shallows flew
behound lax arches, groomer than the slight.
I crêped as swhims of turvy troes
did gyre enjambgle in the ---
Should not cry, should not try,
I'll be battered by and bye.
The girl who mumbles to George Michael on her headphones
will not know the fullness of your smile
--- and neither will I. But I have read your Braille.
The couple squelching their lips
into a kiss (or possibly a knot)
will be the sixth to know.
I can't read Lucian.
Created: 2001-4-24; Last revision: 2001-4-24