The Universe Will Arise

the man in his mirror. bridges churned, destroyed, fumbling to be human.
 
the load is scandalous; the fields are aflame. the corn has a foul stench.

an afoul soul, clashing souls, like waves sitting ill.

so much scrutiny, so many vestibules,
in living us, it was pleasing to die from us.
 
if the signs were more vivid—the tales would be told, it would be the last cave, the slave reborn, the sun showing favoritism.

never closer, feeling apart, the cellist blaring into spaces—the negative, the positive spin, the last apologetic.
 
so sensuous. so clever. arising to perish.

in a bad state. in our affairs. a little too low to ask for company.

knowing she’d fly, swarm the grounds, conjure up a dozen scarecrows; such topaz eyes, sapphire palms, digging and laughing with pain tearing through asphalt.
 
so last at coming to life. serious about perception—permitting me to see the New Kingdom. to have such an epiphany, to get some part of semblance, to sense some type of closure.   

the fierce universe—her balance—her near insanity; to understand loudness, filled by frustration, trying to reassert its essence—booming with pain, keys tapping into spheres, so alive the second it was spinning.